


Receipts and Reciprocity

by itallends



Series: Receipts and Reciprocity [1]
Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Damen is just laurents rich friend there's no actual sugar daddy stuff, Explicit Sexual Content, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining Laurent, Romance, Sugar Daddy Damen, but also not not really, does that make sense, except not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-07-23 18:22:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 49,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20012770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itallends/pseuds/itallends
Summary: Damen has a thing for buying Laurent stuff.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> hello hi i didnt expect this to be my first fic in this fandom (i wrote one two years ago but it was terrible) but i ended up finishing this and here we are i guess????? so uh enjoy??

When Laurent returns to Arles after the end of his first year at university, Auguste arranges dinner at an excessive, lavish restaurant to unofficially welcome him back.

Laurent tries to tell him this is unnecessary in the car on the way over, but Auguste, who has been driving nearly twenty kilometres above the speed limit and has been honked at twice, ignores this.

“Just shut up and let me treat you,” Auguste says. “Finishing your first year is a big deal.”

“I could still fail,” Laurent says. “We won’t receive our marks for another two weeks.”

Auguste’s expression is unamused. “Laurent, if you fail, I will personally saw off my big toe.”

Laurent grins, “The left one or the right one?”

Auguste elbows him, laughing; they almost veer into the wrong lane and the van behind them honks for ten seconds straight. Laurent winces, but Auguste is unperturbed. It’s a running joke between them that Auguste’s hidden superpower is pissing him off as many drivers as possible.

The parking lot adjacent to _The Lazy Ox_ is busy and chaotic; everyone is eager to visit the small, regal restaurant, even on a quiet Wednesday night. As Auguste pulls up into a space farthest from the restaurant, Laurent says: “Please tell me you made a reservation.”

“Of course!” Auguste insists, scratching the blonde peach fuzz across his chin. His hair, chin length and windswept, is knotted and his blazer is too tight across his shoulders. Laurent is thankful he managed to cut his hair before the end of semester; he doesn’t think _The Lazy Ox_ , with its elaborate ambience, would appreciate two unkempt heads of hair entering its establishment. “Well, Damen did, at least. I think.”

Laurent looks up sharply. “ _What?_ ”

“Er – surprise?” Auguste is sheepish. “Oh, come on, don’t look at me like that! I was going to tell you!”

“When? Outside the door?”

The hesitation in Auguste’s response means that yes, yes he was. Lauren is fuming. “I can’t _believe_ you! I thought this was going to be a nice dinner with –”

“It _will_ be a nice dinner, I swear! Just – you know, with Damen as well. That’s all.”

“Oh, if _that’s all_ ,” Laurent scoffs, crossing his arms. Is he overreacting? Definitely. He doesn’t mind having dinner with Damen, not exactly – a secret part of Laurent was hoping that over the summer holidays, he might get to hang out with Damen a few times. _Damen_ isn’t what bothers him; it’s the fact that Auguste is springing him up like this. Laurent is wearing an old, faded dress shirt and slacks that show too much of his ankle. His forehead is oily, his hair unwashed; nothing about his appearance right now is _desirable_ – and that is how he wants Damen to see him as. He had really wanted to impress Damen, now that he was a cultured, well-read university student. Laurent understands all the clichés of being in love with his brother’s best friend, but he can’t _help_ it.

Panic settles into Laurent’s gut. “I don’t want to go anymore.”

Auguste sighs. He unbuckles his seatbelt, reaching over to pat Laurent on the shoulder. “Okay look – full disclosure. Damen told me not to tell you he was coming, but I know you hate surprises, so I thought it’d be better if I at least tell you now so you’re not completely unprepared.”

“Why didn’t he want me to know he was coming?”

Auguste begins fiddling with the two buttons on his blazer; his mouth is turned down and there’s a steady flush vining across his cheeks.

Laurent is immediately concerned; his brother is rarely so desolate. “What is it?” He keeps his tone gentle.

Finally, Auguste lets out a short huff of breath and Laurent realises he’s _embarrassed,_ not upset, which is even stranger. “Okay, so –” Auguste starts, grimacing, “I was telling Damen that I really wanted to take you out for a celebratory dinner at a nice place this time, not just to that shady noodle bar –”

“I like that noodle bar,” Laurent says quickly, and Auguste throws him a fond smile.

“I know you do, but I really did want to do something special for you. I mean, you worked so hard to get into Marlas and so I was telling Damen about it but – ” Auguste’s smile this time is bitter, a hard slice on his face. “it turns out I can’t fucking afford anything, _literally anything_ , in the city. So then Damen says, ‘don’t worry, man, let me handle it, Laurent deserves this’ and so on – and I just went along with it.” He waves his hands in a grand sweep. “And, well, here we are.”

Laurent swallows. He feels warm and jubilant, both at Damen’s words: _Laurent deserves this_ and at Auguste’s love. To save Auguste further embarrassment in the cramped heat of his car, Laurent simply unbuckles his seatbelt and opens the door. Behind him, he hears Auguste’s soft exhale of relief.

When they catch up at the walkway outside, Laurent quickly turns and hugs his older brother as tightly as he can. “You’re a good brother,” he says, muffled into Auguste’s shoulder.

Auguste pats his head and laughs; already, his sunny disposition is back, and the remnants of his haunted expression has evaporated.

_The Lazy Ox_ is a new, urban restaurant that opened in Arles a few months ago. The reviews for it have so far, been amazing, especially amongst the younger crowd. Laurent remembers casually mentioning it to Damen over text, back when it had first opened. He doesn’t think Damen choosing this restaurant tonight is a coincidence.

A young, peppy woman guides Auguste and Laurent to their seats. She doesn’t mention anything about Auguste’s hair. Laurent takes his time staring at the painted windows, the chandeliers and the high ceilings; like most architectural structures in Vere, _The Lazy Ox_ is ornately built.

As they reach their table at the very back, in a secluded, low lit part of the restaurant, Laurent sucks in a breath. Damen is already seated, his back to them. He isn’t wearing a blazer, but his dress shirt, a clean, crisp white, stretches nicely across his back and shoulders. His sleeves are rolled up and his Tag Heuer watch glints. He must hear them approaching, because he quickly looks up from his drink and smiles wide, his left cheek dimpling heavily.

Laurent thinks he may be salivating a little. He wipes the corner of his mouth discreetly as Auguste and Damen hug.

Then, Damen turns to him. His smile softens and his eyes linger. Over what, Laurent isn’t sure, because he didn’t put any effort in his appearance today – a decision that is costing him.

But Damen looks at him like he’s seeing him for the first time. When he reaches forward to hug Laurent, it’s brief and awkward – hugs are a new development in their relationship, and they haven’t quite managed to learn the dynamics of it. Damen smells like patchouli, deep and fragrant.

When they part, Damen doesn’t pull back. His hands rest firmly on Laurent’s shoulders. “You’ve grown up.” His voice is low, deep and the smile on his face is like dark coffee.

Laurent says, “I suppose I had to at some point.”

Damen seems delighted by that and his smile now is all teeth.

He ushers Laurent into his seat, palm settled in between his shoulder blades. Nothing about this is new; Damen is notoriously affectionate. On good days, this makes Laurent’s heart sing. On bad days, a storm cloaks his insides. Today is a good day.

Damen provides recommendations; Laurent and Auguste get the salmon and Damen has steak. The food is ostentatious in its presentation, but it’s so good Laurent almost moans around his fork. He considers doing it anyway, just to get Damen’s attention. He doesn’t need to bother. Damen is apparently very interested in all things to do with Laurent’s life.

Laurent squints at him over his wine glass. “Are you interrogating me? I feel like you’re interrogating me.”

Damen pulls his hands up in a show of mock surrender. “I’m not allowed to ask about the inner workings of your English degree?”

Auguste snorts so loudly the woman at the next table jumps in her seat. Laurent presses his smile to the rim of his glass. “I don’t know what you want me to say. It’s just a shit ton of reading, writing, um – discussing. Oh my god, so much _discussing._ The professors give you like a fucking hundred pages of indecipherable crap to read and you show up to class pretending you’ve done it, then you break off into groups knowing fully well _no one_ has read it either and you all just _discuss_ like you _have._ Plus, I’ve been organising these study sessions in the library because all the clubs are boring and barely anyone shows up ever. Aimeric – that’s my roommate – does come, like to all of them, but I hate him. Well, not hate. But he’s you know – he flirts with everyone and nobody gets anything done.” Laurent pauses a little. “I think I’m talking too much.”

“I don’t think you talk enough,” Damen says quietly. His expression is amused and attractive. Laurent is drunk.

Auguste on the other hand, slaps Laurent’s back – hard. “Well, now that you’ve gotten all that off your chest, I think we can finally _discuss_ – ” He grins, Laurent groans and Damen laughs, “my shitty, shitty boss. You won’t _believe_ what he asked me to do on Monday.”

Before Auguste can launch into his dramatic, most likely exaggerated retelling, Damen eyes Laurent. “You can still keep talking about uni, I’d love to hear it.”

Laurent blinks, surprised. “Oh, uh, no, that’s okay. I want to hear Auguste’s story.”

Any conversation after that is sporadic in quality. By the end of the night, all the topics remain light and jovial. In between talking about the latest Marvel movie, dessert – ordered by Damen – is served.

Laurent tries not to crinkle his nose like a spoilt child as the deconstructed lemon blueberry cheesecake is placed in front of him.

“This is seriously the best cheesecake on the planet,” Damen is saying, already digging his fork into it.

Auguste is also eager to try it; Laurent hesitantly takes a bite and grimaces, quickly smoothing his face when Damen watches him.

“Well? Do you like it?”

Damen looks like he genuinely cares about Laurent’s opinion on this awful cheesecake. Laurent has never wanted to kiss someone as badly as he wants to right now.

He smiles. “It’s amazing.”

“Fuck yeah,” cheers Auguste, mouth full.

Damen’s shoulders relax. He smiles down at his own plate. For Damen’s sake, Laurent manages two more forkfuls.

But Damen notices his unfinished cheesecake. “You’re not eating it.”

“I’m just full. Really. It’s super good.”

“Your loss,” says Auguste, oblivious, reaching over and eating Laurent’s slice.

Laurent doesn’t know why he suddenly feels so guilty about not eating a slice of cheesecake. He thinks it has something to do with Damen’s frown. But surely _that’s_ not related to anything to with cheesecakes. Maybe he just stubbed his toe.

After dessert, more drinks are poured by bright, eager waiters. Laurent could live off the wine in this place – it’s excellent. He feels sorry for Auguste, who has only had a few sips of his. Damen, he knows, never drives himself, and yet, he hasn’t had more than two glasses either. Laurent decides to drink on their behalf.

By the end of the night, Laurent is loose limbed and lax. Auguste appraises him as they grab their blazers and tells Laurent to wait with Damen; he’s going to bring the car round to the front. Laurent is pleasantly drunk, the kind where he could just fall back and watch the world pass by without a care.

Outside, it’s warm, but not humid. Laurent takes extra care to not stare openly at Damen, but when he sneaks a glance a few moments later, Damen is very openly watching _him_.

“Huh?” says Laurent, thinking he’s missed something.

“You didn’t like the dessert,” says Damen.

“Would you be mad at me if I said yes?” Laurent squints.

Damen huffs a laugh. “Of course not.”

“Then yes, I didn’t like it.” Laurent straightens himself, looks up (and up) until he meets Damen’s eyes. “Damen, I need to tell you something.”

Damen’s mouth quirks, his eyebrows rise, like he’s desperately trying not to smile. “Yes, Laurent, what is it?”

Laurent takes a deep breath. “Fruit doesn’t belong in dessert.”

Damen’s head throws back in a laugh. The sound makes desire curl in Laurent’s belly, all the way down to his toes. “You’re right,” Damen chuckles, “please forgive my completely uncultured taste in desserts.”

Laurent pats Damen’s forearm in a _there, there_ gesture. “You’re forgiven,” he says sombrely, and Damen laughs again.

Auguste, in a show of impeccable timing, pulls up just as Laurent is contemplating throwing himself on Damen and climbing him like a tree.

Auguste sticks his head out of the window and yells too loudly in a distinguished neighbourhood, “Cheers, Damen, you son of a bitch!”

Damen snorts, waving his hand lazily. Laurent, still drunk and unintelligibly brave, presses his palm against the one dangling by Damen’s side. Damen looks over in surprise.

“Thank you for tonight,” says Laurent, as sincerely as he can. Their fingers are linked.

Damen swallows, his eyes dark. “I didn’t do anything.”

Laurent smiles, squeezes his fingers. “Should I take back my thanks then?”

“I like you thanking me,” Damen admits, too seriously.

Laurent steps back, unlinking their hands. “I like having reasons to thank you.”

Damen is shocked by that – and pleased. His smile makes Laurent feel stupid.

Of course, Auguste ruins whatever is cultivating in the air between them.

“Hey! This is a kiss and go zone!”

*

Laurent isn’t expecting to see Damen anytime soon – maybe a few more times over the holidays, if he’s lucky.

He’s therefore pleasantly surprised when, two weeks later, Damen knocks on his bedroom door.

It’s an unbearably hot Friday night. The air is torrid and still, muggy in quality. Laurent is in his room alone, reading _Slaughterhouse Five_ on his bed with the air con turned on as cool as possible. He’s still sweating; he can feel it gathering along his temple and the back of his knees.

At first, he doesn’t register the knock. When it comes again, louder and sharper, he calls out: “Come in!” confused, because nobody in his family acknowledges knocking before entering rooms.

The door opens a tiny fraction, enough so Damen’s head can peek through. His hair is thick and curly and despite the humidity in the air, there’s no frizz settled in it.

“Are you decent?”

_I could be indecent for you_ , Laurent thinks of saying. Instead, he jumps up from his bed, fingers clinging to his book and tries to smooth back his hair. “Yes, of course. Uh, come in. Please.”

Damen grins as he steps in. He shuts the door behind him with a quiet click. Laurent knows, logically, it’s because the air conditioner is running and not because Damen is going to pounce on him – still, his heart flutters in his ribcage.

“Hello,” says Damen. His smile is loose and wide. He looks as though he’s just come back from a cruise; he’s wearing a periwinkle blue dress shirt, unbuttoned at the top, the sleeves rolled up to showcase his tanned forearms and slim chino shorts.

Aware of the thin, worn t-shirt and too small sleep shorts he’s wearing, Laurent says, “Hi.” – only it comes out breathless, rather than cool and unaffected.

Damen is staring at him. Or maybe Laurent is projecting. He clears his throat. “Auguste moved out a few years ago, if that’s who you were looking for.”

“I’m aware,” Damen says drily, though his smile has yet to disappear. “I was actually looking for you.”

“Me?” At this point, Laurent is confident he is having a fever dream. There’s no reason for Damen to come looking for him – unless he needs someone to help him understand the concept of modernism in novels. Somehow, he doubts that.

“I was wondering if you were free tonight. I wanted to take you out, show you around the city.”

There is some form of white noise in Laurent’s head.

Stupidly he says: “I’ve lived in Arles my whole life.”

Damen’s smile only grows wider. “In that case, you can show me around.” Maybe registering the alarm on Laurent’s face, he adds: “If you don’t want to, just tell me to fuck off. Seriously.”

“I’d never –” Laurent stops. “Yes, I’m free. We can do – hang out. If you want. I mean, of course you want – you just asked to – not that you know –” With great effort Laurent closes his mouth, pressing his lips together and averting his eyes to the ceiling. Now would be a very decent time for the ground to swallow him up, thank you very much.

But Damen, bless him, only looks amused and a little fond. “Should I wait outside for you to get changed or…”

“It’s okay, you can sit here. I can just get changed in the bathroom.” He hesitates. “What should I wear? We’re not going anywhere that requires wearing a dress shirt, right?” He throws an accusing look at Damen’s outfit. “It’s too hot.”

“Wear anything you like, it’ll be fine,” says Damen as he seats himself on Laurent’s bed, instead of the chair by his desk.

Laurent nods, mouth too dry to speak. Damen on his bed is allowing very inappropriate thoughts to dwell in his head. He walks over to his closet and because he’s embarrassed by the haphazard state it’s in, he keeps the door marginally open. He pulls out the first decent shirt and shorts he comes across and heads out into the hallway, en route to the bathroom.

Once he’s safely locked away in there, the complete realisation hits him: Damen is in his bedroom, waiting to take him out.

“Oh god…” Laurent groans, pressing his forehead to the mirror. Before his own anxiety can talk him out of it, he begins dressing. Methodically, he rubs lotion onto his elbows and kneecaps, washes his face and sprays cologne. His hair is washed and behaving – small mercies.

Damen is reading his abandoned copy of _Slaughterhouse Five_ when he returns. He looks up from the book and his eyes are intense as they assess Laurent’s oversized t-shirt and shorts, which are much shorter than Damen’s.

“Is this fine?” asks Laurent when the silence begins bordering on awkward.

Damen clears his throat and quickly averts his eyes. “Yes. Fine.” Suddenly business-like and brusque, he claps his hands together and stands up. “You ready to go?”

“Yes,” says Laurent. But when he makes his way over to his backpack to grab his wallet, Damen stops him.

“You don’t need that.”

“But I –”

“I told you; I wanted to take you out tonight. My treat.”

Laurent puts his wallet away.

The hallway is too narrow for them to walk through it together; Laurent is very aware of Damen behind him, so close he can feel the heat from his body.

His parents are in the living room, watching an episode of _Friends._ Damen must have greeted them on his way in. Laurent wonders how he didn’t hear them all.

Hennike is flushed from the heat. She smiles when she sees them. “You guys be good,” she calls, throwing Laurent a _look_ he does not want to decipher.

“Make sure you don’t keep my son out for too long,” Aleron warns, eyebrows furrowed in Damen’s direction. His father, like Auguste, is too overprotective.

“Papa!” Laurent groans, mortified.

Damen is blindingly respectful and serious as he promises, “Of course sir.”

Aleron hums, thoughtful, as he gazes at them. Sensing another potentially embarrassing conversation, Laurent bodily ushers Damen out of the house.

The heat is assaulting once they are out on the porch. Damen seems unfazed; Ios is humid and blazing all year round. Laurent remembers the trip to the Vallis’ Summer Gardens. He and Auguste had looked like peeled prawns by the end of that summer. Now, Laurent practically jogs to Damen’s car – a nice, sleek thing – to escape the heat.

Damen slides into the backseat with him. His driver, a kind, timid man named Alexon, waves at Laurent.

Damen rolls up the partition and pours himself some whiskey from the small wet bar beneath it. Laurent doesn’t drink.

They talk. Conversation is at first, stilted, but Damen seems to honestly care about whatever is pouring out of Laurent’s mouth and he gradually feels less self-conscious.

Laurent almost forgets that the reason they are in Damen’s car is because they are driving _to_ somewhere until the car stops. The partition comes down and Alexon utters, “We’re here, sir.”

“Great, thanks.” Damen opens the door to let himself out. Laurent tries to see out the window but it’s too tinted to see clearly.

Damen opens his car door for him. “Oh, thanks,” Laurent says, then stops when he reads the sign of the building they’ve parked across from. He whirls on Damen. “This is –”

“You didn’t like the dessert from last time,” explains Damen. “so, I thought I’d bring you to the best dessert bar Vere has to offer.”

Laurent gapes. He’s sure it’s an unattractive look. “But this is – _Walkway._ As in – _three Michelin star_ _Walkway._ I read there isn’t going to be an open reservation for the next two years!”

“There isn’t.”

Laurent is going to faint. He is also going to fling himself onto Damen, he is absolutely sure.

“You –” He flounders for something to say. “All this because I didn’t like that blueberry cheesecake?”

Damen is watching him; his face is intense, the cut of his jaw strong and stubbled. “I want you to experience the very best, Laurent.”

Laurent’s breath leaves him in shallow bursts of air. There are a hundred thoughts in his head. He manages a small: “I’m underdressed.”

Damen’s face is still too serious. “You’re beautiful enough for no one to notice what you’re wearing.”

Well – that’s just…

Laurent’s face is flaming.

Damen isn’t even looking at him anymore; he’s already striding towards the opening.

In a daze, Laurent follows.

_Walkway_ is grandeur personified. Its interior design is opulent, decorated with silken curtains and lanterned walls. It is also packed; each table is brimming with patrons draped in the finest material, from shimmering gowns to velvet suits.

Laurent is _beyond_ underdressed. Damen – who is, theoretically, in casual wear too – seems not to realise this. Or, he doesn’t care.

The hostess – an older woman with viper red lipstick is starstruck as Damen approaches her. Laurent can empathise.

“Mr Vallis, it’s an honour to have you here tonight,” she simpers. She seems like she means it, too. Her gaze flickers to Laurent once, out of trained politeness, though it falters over his shirt – before she is eagerly addressing Damen again. “Please, follow me.”

Laurent ends up in step behind them but then Damen stops, gesturing Laurent to walk ahead instead. There is enough room in _Walkway_ for Damen to pace himself a respectful distance away, except that is not what happens – Laurent is too aware of Damen’s hand, pressed gently into his shoulder blade. He is also aware of his bare legs – as he passes tables, he sees the awe scrawled on everyone’s faces as they spot Damen and then the consternation as their eyes, naturally, fall to Laurent’s face and his clothes.

“Fine, my ass,” Laurent grumbles under his breath. Really, the _temerity._

Thankfully, their enthusiastic hostess leads them to a private room overlooking the Arles Forrest. It is well lit and free from any prying eyes, except of course for the waiter standing in the corner. Two menu place cards are centred on the table; Damen doesn’t even look at them. As he guides Laurent to his seat, he tells the waiter: “Please bring us everything on the menu tonight – provided it doesn’t contain any fruit.”

And then he winks at Laurent.

Laurent immediately forgives him for the misleading dress code.

*

Of course, everything brought to their table is perfect. Laurent particularly likes a dish called Whirlpool, which is served in a clam made of white chocolate and covered in yuzu caramel, so Damen orders two more of those.

Laurent is ashamed to admit it, but he isn’t thinking about how much money this is all costing – only because he knows it doesn’t bother Damen. In fact, all Damen seems to be concerned with is whether Laurent is enjoying the food.

The waiter comes back to ask them about wine. Laurent tells Damen to choose which makes Damen, inexplicably, quite happy.

When all the plates have been cleared and Laurent relaxes into his seat in lazy contentment, he says, “This was all very excessive.” What he means is: _why._

Damen is good at picking up the subtext. “There isn’t anything wrong in treating yourself occasionally.”

“Right,” says Laurent, frowning. He leans forward a little. “I get that. What I’m confused about is what _you’re_ getting out of this.” Worried he sounds too confrontational, Laurent explains, “I mean tonight must have – it was probably…You didn’t _have_ to bring me here, Damen. If I led you to believe that I – ”

The end of his sentence, _need to be pampered_ is never said because Damen stops him with a gentle hand on his wrist. “I know. This isn’t you being greedy and me hurrying to placate your demands. It’s – it makes me feel good to give you things, especially when I’m more than capable in providing for them.” Damen squeezes his wrist once at Laurent’s startled _oh_. “Besides,” he is quick to continue, “your Auguste’s little brother so that makes you like a little brother to me too – and family looks after family, yeah?”

Laurent ignores the _little brother_ comment because, yikes. “So – this is…” He lets the sentence dangle in the air. 

Damen takes the bait. “It’s me taking care of you, Laurent. Whatever way you may want me to.”

Laurent can think of a few ways, definitely, but the little brother thing sours those thoughts. Step one, change Damen’s mind about that.

For now, he considers Damen and his words.

*

He’s still thinking about Damen’s philosophy later that night, alone in his bed and sweating because the heat is still stifling, even at two am.

He decides to call Auguste.

Auguste answers in two rings. Laurent is not surprised; his brother is a night owl to the core.

Laurent doesn’t beat around the bush. “Does Damen have a, uh, _thing_ for buying people stuff?”

“Why, what happened?”

“He took me to _Walkway_ today. We ordered nearly everything on the menu.”

“What the fuck is _Walkway_?” grumbles Auguste. Then he says, “Oh wait, I know what you’re talking about. That fancy over the top dessert palace or whatever, right?”

“So?”

“So what?”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

Auguste sighs and shuffles around. “Short answer? Basically, yes. When I met him in first year, he was always gifting me shit – designer watches, clothes… He even tried to buy me a yacht. That’s when I put my foot down.”

“I don’t remember any of this.”

“You were eight when I started uni. I’d be surprised if you _did_ remember.”

Laurent hums. “So, this is all just normal Damen behaviour? I shouldn’t try to read into any of it?”

Auguste is immediately suspicious. “Read into it how?”

“Well…”

Auguste groans. “No. Stop. I get it and thankfully I can say that no – this is just Damen being Damen.”

Laurent tries not to feel too deflated. “Well then how can I get him to consider me as a potential, future _possibility_ when it comes to –”

“If you say sex, I will scream so loud, I swear to god –”

“I was going to say dating!” snaps Laurent.

“Absolutely not!” Auguste sounds even more mortified. “You are too young –”

“I’m nineteen!”

“He’s thirty!”

Laurent pauses. “He likes blondes. I’ve seen Jokaste and Lykaios and Kyra and –”

“You have officially lost it. I’m putting an end to this conversation right now.”

There’s a momentary lull in their conversation.

Then Auguste sighs. “Look – fine. I obviously can’t stop you from – _pursuing_ – who you want; I’m not that barbaric.” Laurent snorts and Auguste presses on, “But for the sake of you not getting your hopes – and heart – completely crushed, I’m telling you honestly: Damen buying you things is just a Damen thing.”

“Got it.”

“Sorry, I know that’s –”

“No, no, it’s fine, seriously. It’s better I know that now, than later.”

“Yes,” says Auguste. “Good.”

After he’s said goodnight to Auguste, all sleepiness has evaporated from Laurent’s mind. He rolls over, bare chest against the sheets, mulling over, once again, his dinner with Damen. He can admit to himself that while nothing Damen did suggested he was romantically interested; it was still _nice_ to have him take care of Laurent.

He’s pulling out his phone before he can talk himself out of it. He sends Damen a text: _thank you again for tonight. i had fun._

It’s read instantly. Laurent waits as Damen begins typing. The messages come in quick succession.

_You’re very welcome._

_I had fun too._

_Let me know if there’s anything else you need._

_I’m happy to help out._

Laurent thinks about it. He decides he will.

*

Two days later, Laurent is pawing through his closet trying to find a suitable tank top for their family dinner. The ones he’s pulled out so far are dirty, torn or in some cases, both. Frustrated and sweating, he realises he has nothing decent, so he grudgingly goes to his father’s closest and picks an uncomfortable polo shirt to wear. 

Sitting in his room, waiting for his parents to finish getting ready, Laurent is struck by an idea. He grabs his phone, taking a picture of his mismatched closet and its contents.

He sends it to Damen with the caption: _if you’re going to keep whisking me away to fancy places, i’ll need a wardrobe to match._

Hennike calls, “Laurent! Auguste is already waiting!” as though she hasn’t been the one in the shower for the last half an hour.

Rolling his eyes, Laurent stands up and realises his message has already been read. Damen doesn’t respond this time – but, Laurent supposes, that was kind of the point.

*

The next morning, Aleron chokes on his tea when a burly man wearing a two-piece suit ushers six gigantic boxes into the house, all of them addressed to Laurent.

After assuring his parents that no, he did not blow any of their credit cards and no, he is not in any sort of business that requires the selling of his body or drugs, he moves them into his bedroom, where they take up most of the space.

Laurent pulls out an assortment of suits and dress shirts and slacks, all of them ranging in colour and style. There are wool suits, velvet ones, a dress shirt so sheer that it would require a thick undershirt.

(Laurent briefly considers showing up to Damen’s house wearing it – only without the undershirt).

Laurent calls Damen. “I didn’t realise you were going to send me Burberry’s entire collection. Also, I can’t possibly wear all these.”

Damen is unfazed. “Suits are an essential item in any man’s wardrobe.”

“Maybe, but I can’t exactly rock a – ” Laurent squints at the tag, “Giorgio Armani two piece virgin wool and cupro suit to my Film Studies class.”

“Ah,” Damen considers this. “So, what you need now is more casual stuff.”

His parents are even less amused when the same burly man – apparently named Mathelin – arrives the next day with more boxes to deliver.

Taped to the sides of one of the boxes is a note. Laurent smiles as he reads it.

_To get you started._

_D.V._

*

The rest of Laurent’s summer holiday is anticlimactic. His consistent lounging and complaints about the heat are interrupted by intermittent events: a Revere family road trip, Erasmus and Vannes dragging him to the beach, barbeques and long days at the library.

He doesn’t see Damen again, though not for a lack of trying. When Damen asks him if he’s free one night, Laurent is with Erasmus at the movies; when Laurent asks Damen if he can keep Thursday available, Damen is out of town.

Laurent has a good, relaxing break overall. He spends the last two days packing his belongings – Damen had given him so many clothes he had had to make a definitive list of ‘take to Marlas’ versus ‘leave in Arles’.

His mother helps him clean his room; she is quiet and subdued, the thought of Laurent leaving again weighing on her mind. Laurent almost laughs at her melodrama because Marlas is barely a two-hour flight away. Even Aleron makes a passing comment about the house feeling too empty again once Laurent will leave.

“You guys need to get out more,” Laurent mumbles to himself. Aleron catches it and twists his ear until Laurent is laughing and asking him to stop. Hennike watches them fondly.

Laurent isn’t anticipating any calls from Damen, but when the house is silent, his phone rings.

Damen asks him if he enjoyed his break. Laurent tells him he did. Damen apologises for not taking him out more. Laurent rolls his eyes.

Then Damen is saying, “There’s a car picking you up tomorrow at ten. Is that too early for you?”

Laurent frowns. “I can just take an Uber to the airport.”

“Ubers aren’t authorised to take you onto the tarmac.”

Laurent sits up. “ _Tarmac?_ What does that mean?”

“I’ve arranged for one of my bizjets to take you to Marlas tomorrow.”

“Damen! I’ve already booked a flight! Weeks ago!”

“Send me the receipt,” Damen says, “I’ll reimburse you.”

“You can’t be serious.” Laurent says.

“Deadly,” Through the tinny speakers on his phone, he can hear Damen’s smile. “Don’t stress, alright? I told you – I’m going to take care of you.” 

“I think even you can admit that this is too much, can’t you?”

“No,” Damen’s voice is sincere, soft. “I don’t think it’s too much at all.”

Laurent swallows. His face is heating up – and it has nothing to do with the pressing temperature from outside. He clears his throat to prevent his voice from shaking. “Ten am, you said?”

*

Damen isn’t a man who does anything by halves. The private jet he’s organised for Laurent is spacious, with soft, leather seats roomy enough for Laurent to stretch his legs out. There’s a mini bar (although ‘mini’ is perhaps, inaccurate), a bearded personal chef who asks Laurent what he would like to eat, and a made-up cot, in case the seats aren’t nice enough to fall asleep in.

Laurent is staggered.

Especially because littered across the aisles of the jet are neatly wrapped packages. After confirming that they were indeed for him, Laurent had spent a while carefully unwrapping them.

There’s a new laptop, with the Vallis logo stamped neatly in the corner, a new smartphone, a tablet, headphones and Bluetooth speakers.

Laurent sends an incredulous: _ur killing me_

Damen replies: _Not exactly my intention_

Laurent can’t even formulate a witty enough response.

Later, as they soar above the air some couple thousand feet, Laurent comes across an article on Facebook. The headline reads: _Vallis brothers to open new_ _exclusive office in Delpha._ According to the article, while the office’s precise location hasn’t been revealed, it is speculated to be in the capital, at Marlas. At the end of the article, there is a link encouraging potential applicants to apply, particularly university graduates. It’s released by one of the major news channels in Akielos; still Laurent validates its authenticity by sending the link to Damen. He doesn’t caption it or ask for verification explicitly.

Damen, as always, replies swiftly.

_I guess I’ll be seeing you around more_

And then:

_;)_

Laurent buries his face into a soft, feathered pillow and hyperventilates for a full five minutes.

*

Weeks go by. Laurent busies himself with his classes, his group study sessions and his new job tutoring high school students in English.

One day, as Laurent is getting ready for his early Tuesday class, his sock rips as he pulls it on. The tear starts at the tip of his big toe, enough for a slice of pale skin to peek out through the black fabric. Laurent sits on the edge of his bed, wiggling his toes, thinking.

Finally, he sends Damen a picture of his socked feet; the tear is more obvious on camera, accentuated further by the lily white of Laurent’s skin. There’s no caption. Laurent is curious to see what Damen will do.

He doesn’t disappoint. When Laurent comes back from his classes, it’s barely noon and there is a package waiting for him at his dorm.

Aimeric – who is still annoying and still his roommate – hovers.

“What did you order?” he demands accusingly. “The guy who dropped it off was some big dude in sunglasses and a _suit_. I’ve never seen a delivery man wear a _suit._ ”

“He’s not a delivery man,” Laurent says. Or – he could be. But Laurent is confident Mathelin is an assistant or a bodyguard or something along those lines.

Aimeric watches him open everything curiously. Laurent ignores his stare as he gently takes out pairs and pairs of designer socks and – amusingly – underwear. There are even a few belts at the bottom, rolled neatly with bubble wrap.

At the very bottom there’s a note: _What’s life without the basics?_

Laurent is careful to bite down his grin. Trying not to think too much, he texts Damen: _thanks, but just fyi i actually prefer this:_

And he sends a screenshot of lace panties.

Mathelin knocks on their door an hour later. He nods at Laurent, professional and curt, as he hands him another unsuspecting, brown package.

“What the fuck!” Aimeric shouts behind him.

This time, Laurent doesn’t open the box in front of him. 

He waits until Aimeric has left for his classes and tears it open.

It’s an assault of colours, even though all the contents are wrapped discreetly in white tissue paper. Laurent picks up the one at the very top, a sheer white piece made of the softest cotton. He has no doubt that these are the finest lingerie pieces on the planet. For a short-lived, irrational moment, Laurent is overcome with jealousy at the thought of Damen’s expertise – how many of his lovers, would-be or otherwise, did Damen casually send underwear to? And then he thinks: _I’m one of them now._

Like always, there is a handwritten note. This one is just one, short word.

_Noted._

Laurent really hopes it is.

*

Damen had invited him to the grand opening of _Vallis Tech_ ’s Marlas office at the start of the semester, but since it had fallen on a Wednesday morning during his creative writing lab, Laurent had declined.

“I’m sure I can call someone about that,” Damen had said. Laurent was sure he could have. But his partner would have most likely beheaded them both in a stress induced homicidal rage.

“Really, I’m doing this for your protection,” Laurent remembered saying and Damen had laughed.

Mathelin shows up to his dorm room on a Thursday morning, while Aimeric is still sleeping. Laurent is barely dressed when he opens the door. Mathelin stares at a point above his shoulder and says, “I’ve been asked to take you somewhere if you’re free.”

“Very ominous.”

Mathelin’s face remains stoic. “Mr Vallis would like to give you an all access private tour of his office, sir. Provided you are willing.”

“It’s – Laurent is fine,” Laurent mutters, embarrassed. “Can you give me a minute to change? Or do you think this is fine?” He’s kidding, obviously – Laurent is in his sleep clothes; a tank top and his old high school gym shorts.

Mathelin’s expression doesn’t change. “Everyone on site is required to wear enclosed shoes and –”

“Got it! I’ll just go change then.”

Mathelin utters something about waiting downstairs as Laurent presses his back to the door, exhaling.

Much later, he’s seated in a sleek, modern lobby with interchanging coloured lights. _Vallis Tech_ was clearly constructed to have a perfect dichotomy of Veretian and Akielon architecture. The cool, white marble floors and the obstinate ionic stone pillars are all reminiscent of ancient Akielos structures, but the spiralling staircase, high panelled windows and painted ceilings are all Veretian.

Laurent likes it a lot. He spends a large amount of time craning his head this way and that to assess everything in the room; the man at the reception desk throws him a tiny, gracious smile.

Laurent has only been waiting for a few minutes when Damen steps out of the elevator and into the lobby. Laurent has never seen him dress like this. The navy blue three-piece suit is stunning; it highlights the breadth of Damen’s shoulders and the tightness around his biceps, and the waistcoat draws attention to his hips. Damen strides forward in smooth, confident steps. The material of his slacks creases along his thigh and groin as he does so. Laurent should not be looking at his crotch.

The receptionist stands ramrod straight, offering Damen a polite greeting as he walks by. Damen nods in return. When his eyes fall on Laurent, everything about his posture loosens and his smile is so wide, it makes the corner of his mouth and eyes crinkle.

Laurent closes his mouth, wiping his chin in case of anything unpleasant and stands to greet him.

Damen hugs him to his chest; Laurent’s inhales his sharp cologne and prays the rabbit-like pulse of his heartbeat isn’t so obvious.

Once they pull apart, Laurent says, “You’re getting more and more presumptuous.” He raises his eyebrows. “Dragging me away from uni without so much as text is very forward, you know.”

Damen’s teeth flash, a strip of white against the nut-brown of his complexion. “I prefer the term ‘spontaneous’”.

Laurent pretends to consider it. “I think I like my word better.”

There’s an involuntary pause. Laurent keeps himself still as Damen’s eyes begin a leisurely pace over his hair, face, clothes. Although they are standing too close as it is, Damen still edges forward.

His large, warm palm cups Laurent’s cheekbone. Laurent’s eyes widen and he is careful not to move. “You look good,” says Damen.

Laurent’s fists are clenched by his side – to prevent any stupidity. Stupefied, he says, “Only because of the clothes you bought me.”

Damen’s grin is almost feral. Laurent can’t stop his gasp. Damen’s thumb wonders, slowly stroking the edge of his mouth. His eyes are glued to where his thumb is resting on Laurent’s face. “Not just the clothes.”

Laurent thinks he can hear the audible _snap_ of the tension between them crumbling as soon as Damen steps back. He blinks, dazed and unsure over whether he’s imagined the last few moments.

Damen is unaffected, once again the epitome of a professional businessman. “So, I believe I promised you a tour of the new office?”

Laurent nods. He can’t form any words.

There are six floors in total. Despite this, this office is still a fraction smaller than the one in Ios; Laurent had only visited there once, as a brooding, hormonal fifteen-year-old teenager. So little has changed.

Damen takes him through each floor. He introduces Laurent to everyone and anyone who happens to pass by. Although everyone is polite and welcoming, Laurent can see the mild confusion on their face as they evaluate the way Damen hovers over him protectively.

Eventually, Damen begins introducing him as, “my family friend, Laurent,” instead of “this is Laurent” which sucks – a _lot_ – but it dispels the air of bewilderment surrounding them. And hey, at least he isn’t saying the dreaded _b_ word.

Damen and Kastor’s offices are on the fifth floor. Only four people have access to this section, apparently, and one of them is a large, bearlike man named Makedon who, without prompting, asks Laurent if he would like something called _griva_.

Damen sighs, “You can’t drink in the office, Makedon.”

Makedon furrows his eyebrows and points a finger at Damen. “I’m neck deep in dealing with entitled clients who can’t differentiate a power cord from a microchip. You don’t tell me where I can’t drink!”

“I wouldn’t mind a drink,” Laurent says.

Damen turns to him, exasperated: “It’s eleven in the morning.”, at the same time Makedon beams, slapping Laurent so hard on the back he skids forward a little, “Good man!” he cheers.

Three minutes later, Laurent regrets his decision immensely. Griva is a clear blue liquid that smells strongly of petrol.

“Er – what exactly is in this?”

Makedon looks sly. “It’s an old family recipe. Now, come on! Bottoms up!”

“You don’t have to drink that,” assures Damen.

Laurent does. After an initial burning in his oesophagus, he smacks his lips together. “Wow, hey – that’s actually pretty good.”

Damen is incredulous, his eyebrows shoot up and his mouth parts slightly. Makedon throws him a devilish grin.

“I like him!” He announces to Damen loudly. “If you get rid of this one, Damen, I will personally hunt you down. You – ” He turns to Laurent. “I don’t care if or when or how you two break up – you are officially invited to every company party as my personal guest. Do you understand?”

Laurent blinks. “Oh sure,” He casts a quick glance at Damen. “But we’re not –”

“We should probably move along now,” Damen says.

Makedon pours him another shot of griva. “For the road,” he winks.

“Makedon is an old friend of my dad’s,” Damen says once they leave his office and head towards the end of the hallway. “You’re not obligated to humour him.”

“I know,” Laurent says. “But he seems very nice. And he makes good alcohol.”

Damen throws him a side eyed glance. “I can’t believe you’re drinking that. Pallas threw up half his stomach at the Christmas party when Makedon offered it to him.”

Laurent recalls Pallas from the third floor – young, handsome, almost as tall and built as Damen. “Hmm…I’m very talented.”

“And surprising,” Damen mumbles, so quietly Laurent doesn’t think he was meant to hear it.

Kastor’s office door is closed once they reach it. Damen knocks once and immediately there’s an offhand, “Come in.”

Laurent has only meant Kastor twice. He accompanied them on the Summer Gardens tour, and Auguste invited him to dinner once. Both times Laurent was in high school and had no interest in talking to a middle-aged man. Also, by then, Laurent had only had eyes for the younger Vallis brother.

Kastor eyes the shot glass in Laurent’s hand with a scrutiny that is intimidating. But his eyes and smile are kind when he gets up to shake Laurent’s hand.

There is no doubt Kastor and Damen are brothers; both possess darkened complexions, unruly, curly hair and bodies that are tall and muscled. But whereas Damen’s jaw is always lightly stubbled, Kastor has grown a beard. Kastor also has a longer nose and thinner eyebrows; his face overall, is much more severe, whereas Damen’s face is always open and warm.

They engage in cordial small talk. Kastor asks him what he is studying, whether or not he likes it, did he see the water fountain on the second floor? what is he planning to do after university? 

Laurent’s answers are a little slow; griva is very strong.

Once they leave, Damen takes him to his office and seats him on a red sofa.

“Do you need some water?”

“Yes, please,” says Laurent, aware now of his dry mouth.

Damen’s office is generic, but not as bare as Kastor or Makedon’s. There are potted plants placed along the windowsill, his desk, a large oak one, is haphazardly filled with paperwork and four different calendars. There’s also a framed photo of Damen’s parents.

Damen’s thigh presses against Laurent’s as he sits down next to him. He hands Laurent a cool bottle of water and a packet of honeyed nuts. Laurent throws him a grateful smile.

“Are you alright?” asks Damen. His face is crumpled with concern, his eyebrows almost meeting in the middle.

Laurent leans back into the armrest with a smile. He carefully keeps his leg in place. “Yeah, I am. This griva stuff is insane. You should tell Mr Makedon to bottle it up and sell it; it’d be a hit and uni parties.”

Damen snorts. “Don’t give him any ideas.” He presses, “You sure you’re okay?”

“Absolutely,” says Laurent. He honestly feels fine; he’s not dizzy or nauseous or slurring. Just a little sluggish.

Damen smiles. “We still have one more floor to get through, if you’re up for it.”

“Lead the way, Mr Vallis.” Laurent makes a lazy gesture with his hand.

Damen’s eyes darken and Laurent instinctively gazes at the bob of his throat as he swallows.

Damen stands up quickly – too quickly – and stumbles a little. “Let’s go then.”

The sixth floor is glaringly bare – although maybe that’s the wrong word to use as it is lavishly decorated. It almost seems like the floor of an apartment and not an office; there are coloured beanbags and sofas in the centre, facing a built-in television, another furnished office, a kitchen with a vending machine, a towering bookcase crammed with titles and a mini gym.

Laurent can’t sense what seems off about this floor until he realises how quiet it is – there is no one up here besides them.

“Do you like it?” Damen is watching him.

Laurent says, “Of course. It’s – is this some sort of recreation area?”

“You could say that.” Damen starts slowly. “Is this a place you could see yourself potentially visiting?”

Laurent turns to him, eyes narrowing. “Why…?”

Damen is still speaking slowly, as though he is unsure how to construct his thoughts. “It’s for you.”

Laurent stares.

“I thought it might be…nice… if you had a decent place to study and relax, in case you ever needed a break from…everything.”

Laurent is still staring.

Damen rushes on, “You’re the only person that has clearance for this level. Well – me too – but that’s only for security reasons, but I won’t bother you. Unless you want, of course.”

Somehow, this feels like too much – even more overwhelming than the private jet filled with gifts, the boxes of underwear, the lavish desserts. Now that Laurent looks around properly, he can see how everything has been tailored to his specific tastes; from the snacks in the vending machine to the size of the desk.

Oddly emotional, Laurent chokes out, “I love it.”

Damen’s eyes are the colour of honey. “Nothing else you need?”

Lips pressed together, Laurent minutely shakes his head. On shaky legs, he walks over to one of the sofas and sits down. It’s soft and he sinks right into it, exactly how he likes it. Strangely, this is the last straw. He presses the heels of his hands against his eyelids until bright lights dance across his vision.

Damen sits down next to him, although this time he leaves a considerable amount of space between them. “Is everything okay?”

Laurent nods. Damen shifts.

“It doesn’t seem like it.”

Laurent is disjointed. All he can remember at the moment is Auguste’s warning to not get his hopes up – and he realises that he never took that advice to heart.

The clothes, the food, the tech – those had all been part of a game where Laurent could test Damen’s patience, his kindness.

But Damen creating something that Laurent has always _wanted –_ a space that is completely his, where he is welcome, safe, comfortable – is not a part of this game.

It hits Laurent then: how much of his heart, desires, secrets and dreams he has given to Damen over the years; to someone who will never return those sentiments, because Damen’s heart has never – and will never – belong to him.

Laurent comes back to himself in slow, measured segments. It would be stupid and selfish to completely lose it right here, right now.

He lowers his hands, fists them into tight balls and places them on his knees. Damen’s face is overstrung in its worry. Laurent does not meet his eyes as he says, “I was just feeling a little dizzy.”

“Do you need to lie down?” When Laurent shakes his head, he stands up, determined, “Wait here. I’m going to get you some water.”

Laurent settles into the sofa, eyes drifting to the ceiling and waits. Damen comes back from the kitchen area with a glass of water. Laurent takes it with shaky hands and sips it slowly.

“I’m sorry,” he begins, “I’m being difficult today.”

“You aren’t,” Damen says, like the thought had never crossed his mind. “You’re always easy to be with, Laurent.” When Laurent remains silent, Damen continues, “I’m going to have a serious discussion with Makedon about this griva shit.”

“No, don’t!” Laurent protests, wide eyed. “Seriously, it’s not his fault I couldn’t handle it!” Although he totally can – however, letting Damen think his sudden despondence is a result of some strange liquor is better than the ulterior.

Damen laments. “I need to know you’re okay.”

It’s all too much; the intensity of Damen’s gaze, the floor they are sitting in, Laurent’s own emotions. He desperately wants to dispel it, go back to the lightness from a few moments ago.

Deliberating, Laurent gently nudges Damen’s foot with his own. “I will be, if you can order us sushi up here.”

It works. Damen visibly deflates, the tension across his face and shoulders melting into the fabric of the sofa. Laurent’s heart soars, an ecstatic leap for achieving his mission.

“I can do that,” says Damen.

*

For Laurent it starts when he is a friendless, quiet, lonely fifteen-year-old.

Back then, he had only ever found solace in two things: books and his brother. But then Auguste left for university on the other side of the continent, in Ios, and he made new friends, had a new career and he didn’t have any time for Laurent anymore.

It’s unfair to think of it that way. Laurent knows his brother loves him more than most things, but in his mind’s eye he remembers how his clinginess annoyed Auguste, how exasperated Auguste grew every time Laurent asked when he was coming home. For Auguste, the world was his for the taking – he was twenty-four, freshly graduated, enrolling in a master’s program the following year and a fulltime worker. Laurent was not his to look after anymore.

Their age gap also took a huge toll on their relationship. It was difficult for Laurent to connect with Auguste, whose life consisted of incomprehensible forms of responsibility and a sense of _busyness_ ; similarly, Auguste thought Laurent’s complaints about high school were trivial and inconsequential.

That summer, Auguste called home to let them know that the Revere family had officially been invited to spend two weeks at the Vallis Summer Gardens. Everything was being paid for, Auguste had said, all they needed to do was show up.

Laurent remembers how valiantly he had fought against the trip.

“I’m not going all the way across the ocean just so Auguste and his friends can ignore me!”

Hennike’s eyes had clouded. “Baby, he’s not going to ignore you.”

“Yes, he will! He didn’t even want to speak to me the last time he called!”

Aleron didn’t deny this. “Forget about your brother, Laurent. He’ll be with his friends, so what? The three of us can hang out together, yeah? We’ll go swimming and –”

Laurent wasn’t going to let him finish. “You’ll be with _your_ friends, Mr and Mrs Vallis, and I’ll be alone! Like always!”

In the end, it didn’t matter how much Laurent protested; his parents were under the firm assumption that spending some time away from Vere would do him good.

The beginning of their stay at the Summer Gardens was exactly how Laurent panned it would be; Auguste, after his initial greeting, barely spent time at the house. He and Damen were always away in town, drinking, dancing, probably fucking. Kastor didn’t even bother entertaining Laurent with his time. And his parents, while they did try to include Laurent every now and then, were obligated to spend time with the Vallis’, who solely partook in _couple_ activities.

Ios was supposed to be good for Laurent; instead, his loneliness grew worse.

It was hard for him to get an edgewise in any conversation. Nobody wanted to spend time with him. Ios became a place that highlighted all his flaws and Laurent hated every moment he spent there.

Everything changed the night Damen found him crying in the library.

The library was a magnificent thing, with stone walls and high pillars and a clear, crisp view of the ocean, so the place always smelt slightly salty. Theomedes Vallis had boasted that this library was _minuscule_ to the one they had in Ios.

It was love at first sight for Laurent.

Unfortunately, it was a love that required a lot of sharing and patience. He was not the only one who found the library beautiful, and unlike the Gardens or the mansion, this place was open for public consumption. All day, large crowds gathered, eager tourists and wealthy collectors and Laurent could never find a moment of peace.

Aleron, overprotective and assertive, told Laurent he was not allowed to visit the library by himself.

“There are just too many strangers in there all the time, son. What if something happens to you? We’d have no way of knowing.”

And of course, no one was willing to accompany Laurent _anywhere._

Their last day in Ios couldn’t have come fast enough. Laurent, despite his relief, was anxious that he would never see his beloved library again. While everyone was outside, lounging in the grass, enjoying the rare, cool breeze that flowed in the air every few minutes, Laurent crept away.

His heart thudded in his chest; he was aware of how loud his footsteps were on the marble floors.

When he stopped in front of the golden, engraved doors of the library, his heart only sped up. He slipped inside easily. The head librarian, a motherly woman with two dark plaits, smiled at him. It felt good, to be acknowledged like that.

Laurent spent a long time leisurely pursuing the aisles. The Vallis’ collection was unique; some of the titles and authors were completely unknown to him.

Time passed. It grew darker outside. Laurent made sure his phone was not on silent; if his father called, he would hear it.

He settled near the window on the loveseat, feat curled under him, an assortment of books sprawled across the seat with him. He lost himself in the epic novels of ancient Akielos writers, who relayed stories of beasts and love and famine and war.

Laurent checked his phone in passing and gasped; he’d been in here for almost three hours. The library had steadily cleared out by now. Worried about his father’s reprimand, Laurent was about to stand up when a movement outside the window caught his eye. From here, the entrance of the Gardens was visible, and in spite of the darkness, Laurent could see where the Revere and Vallis had laid out their impromptu picnic. Everyone was relaxed and lounging; he could hear the faint laughter drift into the air.

With a cold sense of dread, it occurred to Laurent then that no one seemed to have even noticed he’d gone.

Shutting his book with a frigid clarity, Laurent came to the realisation that he was insignificant, even to the people who were supposed to love him the most.

It was a terrible thought. It _hurt_ Laurent in a way he’d never experienced; a cold slice across his heart, freezing his insides.

He wasn’t conscious of his tears; he supposed that the crying was a subsequent consequence of the shock he felt. But he did cry – a lot. It began with small, hitching breaths, and then he was shaking, face flashing hot and cold.

“Laurent?”

The voice was deep, smooth and concerned. Laurent could barely open his eyes; they were too puffy.

Damen kneeled on the marble flooring in front of him. He made no move to touch Laurent, but his face was creased with worry. “Are you alright? Do you need me to call your parents?”

Humiliated, Laurent could only turn away. “G-go a-away.”

He could sense Damen’s hesitance. It was apparent that he did not wish to stay and awkwardly comfort his best friend’s younger brother; it was equally apparent that he did not want to leave Laurent alone.

Damen made his decision. He placed himself on a leather armchair near Laurent’s seat. “Do you want to talk to me about it?” When Laurent shook his head he said, “Should I find someone you want to talk to?”

Laurent sniffed. “There’s no point.” His voice was hoarse and it was painful to swallow. “No one wants to t-talk to m-me.”

“That’s not true,” Damen assured with such confidence it made Laurent pause. “ _I_ want to. Really. Maybe I could help you feel better.”

It would be too mortifying to talk to Damen. Damen was popular, well-liked, charming and most importantly, Auguste’s best friend. He wouldn’t understand what Laurent was feeling.

Laurent’s reluctance seemed to be evident. It was quiet for a moment. Then Damen stood up, brushing his bare kneecaps. “I’ll be back,” he promised. At the look on Laurent’s face, his smile gentled. “I’m not getting anyone, I promise. Give me five minutes, yeah?”

Damen waited until he received confirmation before breaking out into a light jog towards the library’s exit.

Twenty minutes passed. Laurent, who had by now calmed down, came to the conclusion that Damen had forgotten about him, or – and this was most likely – had made his escape. Laurent was not surprised. He checked his appearance in his phone’s camera, grimacing at the spots of unflattering colour on his face and his red rimmed eyes; he wiped his face and exhaled once, then twice. It was getting late. He should make his way back to his room and sleep this terrible vacation off.

No sooner than had he thought this, there were determined footsteps making their way down the aisle.

Laurent blinked in shock. Damen had returned with an assortment of paper bags from various restaurants. He could see the logo of the Mexican restaurant they had dined at a few nights ago, a bag from the local patisserie and there was the distinct smell of shawarma kebab.

Laurent said, “We can’t eat in here.”

“Sure we can,” Damen grinned. “My parents own this place.” He set the food down on the small table in front of them. “Sorry it took so long – there was a hold up at the diner.”

Laurent stared at the impromptu spread. “I don’t understand?” He asked meekly.

Damen shrugged, a boyish and unselfconscious gesture. “I always feel like I’m dying of hunger after I’ve uh, been emotional. I used to cry all the time as a kid, you know? Kastor was super mean.”

“Oh,” said Laurent. He thought of saying more but Damen was already distributing the food; he passed Laurent a box of nachos and cheesy fries with a steaming, wrapped shawarma kebab on top. Laurent placed the books away with careful hands.

“Did you find anything you liked?” Damen asked. He took a bite of his kebab as he nodded to the pile of books.

Laurent’s throat was still a little dry. He cleared it. “There was one that was really good – uh, _The Voyager_?”

Damen beamed. “My favourite. I read it when I was twelve and became obsessed. There’s also a sequel, but it honestly isn’t as good.”

The food was making Laurent amiable. He relaxed into the cushions. “The protagonist is a douche, though.”

“How dare you!” Damen cried with such mock outrage that Laurent’s lips quired unintentionally. “Alesandro is the brother I’ve never had. I would gladly fight a ten-foot sea serpent for him.”

Laurent giggled, then covered it up with a cough. “I think you would be too busy flirting with the Sultan’s daughter.”

Damen’s gasp this time was so loud, several patrons looked over. He clutched at his heart. “Laurent, you wound me.”

This time, Laurent did laugh.

They didn’t have a long conversation that night. Laurent was tired, from the crying and the long day they’d had, so after a while, Damen packed their food and walked him back to his room.

“I told your parents you were with me,” Damen said. “So if they freak out, just tell them I forced you to hang out with me or something.”

“You didn’t force me,” said Laurent, after a beat.

Damen smiled and ruffled his hair. “Good to know. I hope you feel better.”

“I do…thanks.”

“No worries. Make sure you come visit again, yeah? We’ll have even more fun next time.”

Laurent doubted that.

The next morning, waiting outside his door was a brand-new copy of _The Voyager_ and its sequel, _The Protector._

Eventually, things did get better. Laurent’s relationship with his parents became less formal and constrained. Aleron, who was not interested in stories at all began reading Laurent’s favourite books so they could discuss them together. Hennike spent time at the kitchen table next to Laurent as he studied, occasionally sewing or reminiscing about her own school days. Laurent made friends with the new kid at school, Erasmus, and then again with Vannes in his senior year. Auguste returned home to Arles. They both made an effort to bridge the gap between them. Their relationship became even stronger than before, because now they knew what it was like to lose each other.

Laurent often thinks about that time in his life, his own crushing helplessness and marvels at how he managed to overcome it.

However, his mind, almost as frequently, remembers that night in the library with Damen. He remembers Damen’s kindness, his determinedness, how much he seemed to care about Laurent being upset. For Damen, that night is possibly not anything unique; just a small blip in his and Laurent’s history. But to Laurent, it was everything.

*

Aimeric is in bed, shirtless and rolling his nipples between his fingers while filming himself on his phone when Laurent comes back from class.

“Sorry,” he mutters. He turns to walk back out the room; Aimeric stops him with a “Wait!”

“I’m finished,” Aimeric clarifies. His nipples are very pink.

Laurent averts his eyes and collapses onto his bed. “I should have knocked. Sorry.”

“It’s my fault; I should have texted you.”

“I was convincing my boyfriend to visit me,” Aimeric says after a while. Perhaps he can feel the strange awkwardness in the air, too.

This makes Laurent look up, eyebrows raised. “You didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend.”

“No shit,” Aimeric says, pulling on his shirt. “You didn’t tell me you had a sugar daddy.”

“I –”

“Please. You’ve been dressing like a preppy rich kid all semester, you have all the latest tech and just yesterday, that bodyguard dude left you personalised 24-carat gold fountain pens.”

(Laurent had sent Damen a picture of his pen breaking, his fingers covered in ink).

Laurent hedges. “He’s not my sugar daddy. He’s my brother’s friend.”

Aimeric mutters something under his breath.

“No, really. He’s just my brother’s rich friend.”

“Well, fuck. I wish my brother’s friends were sending me lingerie.”

Laurent stops.

Aimeric holds up his hands. “No judgement, man. But you aren’t doing an exceptional job at hiding them.”

That’s fair, Laurent concedes. He thinks of clarifying, saying something along the lines of, _we have an arrangement_ , but that _does_ make it seem like Damen is his sugar daddy, so he doesn’t bother.

Instead, Laurent asks, “How long have you and…”

“Jord.”

“Jord – yes. How long have you two been together?”

“Since the summer.”

The timing makes sense, now that Laurent thinks about. Aimeric hasn’t tried to hit on Rochert all semester.

“We’ve been keeping it lowkey,” Aimeric continues. He’s much more animated now. “Our families kinda hate each other. Is it cliché to say they’re rivals? I mean, they sort of are. Apparently Jord’s great-grandfather fucked over my great-grandfather while they were setting up a business or something. Of course, Jord’s family says the opposite.”

“Wow,” says Laurent, unsure what to do with the barrage of information. “So how did you guys get together then?”

“We met at a bar and didn’t realise who the other person was until the next morning. But by then…” He trails off, suddenly uncharacteristically shy.

Laurent doesn’t push him. He says, “Well, congrats. Hopefully it works out – uh, the family situation sounds complicated.”

Aimeric shrugs. “If my brothers knew, they’d kill me. And Jord.” His expression turns sly. “Speaking of brothers…”

Laurent keeps his face straight. “I have one, yes. His name is Auguste and he – ”

“Oh, fuck off. I’m more interested in his _friend_.”

“There isn’t much to say about him.”

“He’s bought you pretty much everything you own and there isn’t anything to say about him? Bullshit. Are you two fucking?”

“I wish,” Laurent mutters, too darkly and too sincerely. He realises his mistake as soon as he says it; Aimeric’s grin is gleeful.

“Oh, _fuck yeah!_ ” He cups his face in his palm and bats his eyelashes. “Keep going, please.”

“God, shut up,” Laurent says, lying back down on his bed and pulling his pillow on his face.

Aimeric is relentless. A few moments later, he feels the weight of another body bouncing onto his bed.

Laurent rips off the pillow. “Seriously –”

Aimeric, now perched on his bedsheets, smacks his ankle. “You, Revere, are clearly in need of an intervention. Luckily for you, I am willing to provide you one. Let’s go to _Campus Cart_ and discuss your dilemma.”

“We don’t need to –”

“This is the most interesting conversation we’ve had in a year and a half. You are _not_ depriving me of this.”

Grumbling, Laurent accepts defeat. He’s craving a ham and cheese croissant anyway.

Laurent pays for his and Aimeric’s orders. Aimeric, taking advantage of Laurent’s forced hospitality, orders an overpriced salad.

This isn’t the first time he and Aimeric have hung out, however, it’s the first time they’ve hung out without the pretence of studying together. It’s…nice. Almost like they’re friends. It’s a bit strange; Laurent has never liked Aimeric’s flamboyancy and Aimeric, in turn, has called Laurent boring multiple times. But now, sitting in the campus’s coffee shop, it feels therapeutic to vent about Damen to someone who isn’t Auguste.

Aimeric is patient. He listens well, only adding commentary when he needs clarification for something.

“So, in conclusion, your problem is that you’re unsure whether Damen will ever see you more than Auguste’s brother.”

“That is an apt way of looking at it,” Laurent mumbles.

“Well, I mean, have you ever let him know that you’re available and willing?”

“I asked Auguste about how to do that weeks ago, but he didn’t want to tell me.”

Aimeric looks flabbergasted. “You don’t need to ask your _brother_ for that kind of thing! It’s simple.”

“Damen isn’t a simple man.”

“Yes, he is. In fact, I guarantee it.”

Laurent raises an eyebrow, waiting.

“Dude, I’m talking about flirting.” Aimeric is deadpan. “Have you even done that? And I’m not referring to the wishy-washy kind.”

“I –” Laurent hesitates. “I mean, the lingerie was kind of…”

“Did you model it for him?”

Laurent’s face goes pink. “What.”

“How is he supposed to know that that was a call for his attention if you didn’t even hint at it? For all he knows, you’re stocking them up for sex marathons with people who aren’t him.”

“Well, I –” Laurent fumbles for something to say. “I don’t want to do that…I mean, wouldn’t it come off as too strong?”

“In this case, subtlety is your enemy, Laurent, believe me. You said he doesn’t have an issue with buying people stuff?”

“According to Auguste, yes.”

“Then you need to stand out. What makes you different from all the other people he’s treating? Send him intimate texts. Let him know you’re thinking of him constantly. If you want this guy, you gotta just go for it.”

Laurent shakes his head. “I have no idea how I would even start.”

Aimeric watches him with a contemplative form of scrutiny for a while. Then, he leans forward in his seat, fingertips brushing against Laurent’s. “Oh, _Damen_.” His voice is a few notches short of being a breathy moan. “Thank you _so_ much for the coffee today.” Aimeric blinks his large doe eyes at him and his mouth is in a pout. It draws attention to his lips. “You’re honestly so sweet. Why don’t we go back to my room? I have a few new books I want to show you.” His fingertips are more purposeful now in their movements; they linger at Laurent’s wrist, above his pulse point. To drive it all home, Aimeric tilts his head, “Please?” he says and then licks his bottom lip.

Laurent gapes, pulling his hand away. “You – what the fuck, Aimeric.”

Aimeric laughs in delight. “What! I’m showing you exactly how you act! I’m telling you, he’ll love it.”

“I can’t do that!” Laurent cries. “It’s so – he’ll think I’ve lost it.”

“No, he’ll think, ‘holy shit, will anybody notice if I just fuck him right now?’”

Laurent blushes. “He’s not going to think that.”

“Not if you don’t _make_ him.” Aimeric waves his hand in a _so there_ gesture. “He’s just waiting for you to give him a sign, so _give it to him_.”

“I –” Laurent is contemplating it, now. God. “I’m bad at flirting.”

‘Then let your body do the talking.”

“You’re ridiculous. That is single-handedly, the worst advice ever.”

“Which one of us has the boyfriend again?”

That makes Laurent laugh. “Okay, fair point.”

“You’ve got more than enough going for you, man. You’re young, smart, talented and not that bad looking. He’s stupid if he doesn’t want you too.”

Touched, Laurent can only manage a sheepish, “Thanks,” before he decides to change the topic.

*

The truth is, Laurent has thought about it. He has these scenarios, fantasises, visions, where he is confident and assertive. Ones where he doesn’t pause and just _does._

There’s never any set place where these fantasies take place. Sometimes it’s in Laurent’s room in Arles, or the backseat of a car, or Damen’s bedroom, which he hasn’t seen. The setting is never important, regardless. It always starts the same way.

Laurent shows up to a dinner with Damen wearing that sheer, silk shirt. Its transparent and needs to be worn with an undershirt – only Laurent doesn’t wear one. He leaves the buttons at the top undone, so his collarbone and the length of his neck is on display. In his mind, Laurent thinks he knows how Damen will react; that is to say – he won’t. Damen would stare at him with dark eyes and a parted mouth, but he’d keep his hands clenched and by his side. He’d make no move to touch Laurent.

Then Damen will bring out a gift. It never matters what it is; it’s inconsequential because Laurent always reacts the same way. He places it down, on the seat, on the table, whatever and says in a low voice, “I love it, Damen. Do you want me to show you how much?”

Damen will nod. He’ll call the waiter for the bill, even though all they’ve ordered are appetisers.

Once they’re outside, Damen will grab him with large hands by the waist, shove him up against the brick wall and kiss him in front of everyone. It’d be possessive, thinks Laurent. It’d bruise him. Damen wouldn’t be shy about marking him.

The easy thing about fantasises is that Laurent doesn’t have to spend much time deliberating how they work play by play. In this case, he doesn’t have to think about how they get to the place where they fuck. The next scene is always Laurent, strung out and fucked good, hard, slow, sweet, mercilessly, roughly.

Laurent comes with a small, quiet gasp, stifled into the pillows. He waits with bated breath, but Aimeric is still sleeping.

As he slowly removes his hand from inside his pants, Laurent surmises that he’s terrified. It isn’t that he doesn’t want it. He wants it. Maybe a little too much. That’s what scares him.

*

Jord is a stocky, short man with reddish hair and angry freckles across his arms. His nose is bent and his eyes are bright. He is handsome enough, Laurent supposes, but not exactly what he imagined Aimeric’s type to be.

Laurent was definitely not expecting to meet him like this, over video call. Jord and Aimeric are both shirtless and in bed. It is clear they have just finished having sex. Laurent is glad that it isn’t in their shared room, where he currently is.

“Wait, your name is Revere and you’re from Vere?” Jord asks. “Oh, man, that’s pretty funny.”

Laurent, who has been hearing these jokes since he was five years old, sighs a little impatiently. He has been careful not to look at either of them directly on his phone screen. Despite this, he can concede that they look good together, especially because Aimeric seems much primmer next to Jord’s ruggedness. Laurent feels a pang of jealousy; he wants to have middle-of-the-day sex with Damen too. He also wonders if they ever look like this when they are together – contrasting, but somehow whole.

“Is there a reason you called Aimeric?” Laurent asks. “I have class in half an hour.”

“Yeah,” says Aimeric, smirking and still nestled against Jord’s shoulder. “I wanted to make a point.” He draws in a breath and bellows: “NUDES WORK!”

Then he throws his head back in what can only be described as a _cackle._

Laurent hangs up.

*

Unlike most students on campus, Laurent doesn’t bemoan the thought of Mondays because he doesn’t have class at all. As of right now, he feels nothing but a lazy sort of satisfaction as he stretches across his bed, ready to do nothing but watch Netflix on what is essentially, his third weekend day.

Halfway through _Thor Ragnarok,_ Damen texts him a photo. It’s an image of a nondescript bookshelf arranged in the colours of a rainbow. There’s sunlight streaming in and a comfy armchair in the corner.

_Ten points to Ravenclaw if you know where I am right now_

Laurent knows. He’s been to _Boring Books_ religiously since his first week at Marlas. It’s down the road from campus, perfectly positioned in between a coffee shop and the park. It’s one of Laurent’s favourite places.

Laurent deliberates over what he’s going to send. He drafts several responses; the first one is a simple, _boring books, obviously_ , then he tries _vallis tech isn’t thinking of opening a bookstore is it?_ and even _i cant believe u remembered im a ravenclaw._

The thought comes to Laurent a full fifteen minutes after Damen texts him. Half incredulous at his own daring and half anxious, Laurent pulls off shirt. He muses his hair until it’s fluffy and messy and falling over his eyes. He lays down on his pillow and trying not to think too much, he pouts his mouth enough for it to seem unintentional and takes a photo.

It’s a good photo, Laurent can admit. There’s enough buttery sunlight coming in from his window to emphasise the blue in his eyes. His hair looks like flashing gold, and the picture cuts off to show enough of his collarbones and the paleness of his neck.

Still, Laurent hesitates. He sends it to Aimeric with a _should i send to damen y/n_

Aimeric is in his Finance class; predictably, his response is quick. It also manages to surge Laurent’s confidence.

_FUCK YEAH!!!!!!!! GET IT REVERE!!!!!!!!!_

So, Laurent hits send. He captions the photo _i know youre close enough to come visit me. so come over._

Damen reads it two minutes later. Laurent checks. Damen begins typing, then stops. He starts again. Then he stops.

Damen’s response comes five minutes later.

_Sure._

Laurent spends the next ten minutes cleaning his side of the room as thoroughly as he can – except for the bedsheets, which he keeps suggestively rumpled.

He also changes his outfit; he briefly flirts with the idea of opening his door shirtless, except he thinks it would be too much too soon. Subtlety can be good, despite what Aimeric says. So, he throws on a soft Henley shirt and a pair of running shorts.

Damen appears at his dorm room door carrying a bag. He’s wearing a black blazer over a high collared shirt and dress pants. His smile is strained, and he doesn’t meet Laurent’s eyes when he says hello.

Laurent steps aside to let him in. He watches Damen take in his room, oddly nervous, even though Laurent isn’t responsible for more than half of the questionable decorating skills.

But Damen doesn’t say anything, only tilts his head a little, like he just thought of something important.

Laurent can’t have Damen thinking of anything but him. He offers Damen the seat by his desk and he perches himself on his bed.

Damen’s eyes land on his bedsheets. He looks away just as quickly. When he meets Laurent’s eyes, his smile is still tense.

Laurent asks, “Were you skipping work today?”

“Huh, no, I wish. One of our bigtime clients wanted a meeting and she suggested the coffee shop near _Boring Books._ Speaking of,” Damen reaches for his bag and pulls out a plastic bag. He hands it to Laurent.

It’s heavy and he knows without opening it, that it contains books. Lots of them.

“Thank you, Damen.”

“Don’t thank me just yet. I didn’t know what you’d like. You might hate them all.”

Laurent makes sure to keep his gaze level and grateful. “If it’s from you, I could never hate it.”

  
Damen swallows; the click of his throat is audible in the room.

Damen’s gaze on him as he opens his gift is weighty, significant, hot. The attention is addictive. How is Laurent supposed to tell Damen that _that_ is better than any gift in the world?

Laurent doesn’t have a bookshelf, but he carefully arranges his new books by his bedside, Damen’s eyes on him the whole time.

Damen doesn’t stay for long. By the time they’ve finished talking about Laurent’s classes and the new client _Vallis Tech_ has been trying to wrangle, Damen’s phone has been buzzing in his pocket for two minutes.

Laurent is smiling. “Damen, just answer it.”

Damen flaps his hand. “It’s only Kastor. He doesn’t want to meet with Halvik alone.”

“You’re going to have to go back to the office eventually.”

“I want to be here with you,” Damen says. The fierceness of his tone makes the both of them falter. Damen lowers his eyes, flicking lint of his thighs. “What I mean is –” he starts, slow and deliberate, “We haven’t hung out in a while.”

“Well, that’s an easy fix,” says Laurent. “Take me out for dinner tonight. When you’re done with work.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Damen smiles. “Any place in particular?”

“I trust your judgement.”

Damen nods, his smile relaxing. He makes a move to stand up. “If there’s anything else you need –”

The thought bursts into life in Laurent’s mind. He says, “Actually, I need a favour.”

“Name it,” Damen’s voice is warm, like the thought of Laurent needing his help is pleasing.

“I need your opinion on sheets.”

“…Sheets.”

Laurent artfully constructs his pose on the bed. He lays his palms flat behind him, the fabric of his shirt pulling against his chest, and stretches his legs, so his toes are pointed to the ground. Predictably, Damen’s eyes fall to the bareness of his legs before he hastily meets Laurent’s face.

“These bedsheets are terrible. And my skin is very sensitive,” says Laurent.

“Right,” Damen says faintly, eyes hazy.

“Hmm…and there’s only so much moisturiser I can use.” Laurent brings one of his hands forward, running his fingertips from the side of his kneecap, to the inside of his thigh, inches away from his groin.

Damen lets out a strangled cough.

Laurent decides to go for broke. Pressing his fingers into the flesh of his thigh, he looks Damen in the eyes and says, “What kind of sheets are on your bed, Damen?”

Damen clambers out of his seat so fast, Laurent genuinely thinks something bit him. He scrambles for his bag and gaze flickering somewhere over Laurent’s head, he chokes out, “I’ll look into it for you. I should really get going.”

Laurent smiles and stands up as well. “We’re still on for dinner, right?”

Damen nods, lost.

Laurent lets him go.

*

Later that night, Laurent sends Damen another photo of him lounging on his bed, this time on his new merino wool sheets. The darkness of the fabric brings out the colour of his hair and skin. Now, he angles his phone lower, so his nipples, hard and pink against the cool air, are visible.

_i love the colour_

Damen responds with a simple: _Good._

Laurent spends the rest of the night imagining lying on these sheets, but on Damen’s bed, with Damen thrusting on top of him.

He doesn’t get much sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anyone is here, thank you so much for reading!! i really hope you liked it!! i'll try to get part two asap. in the meantime, if you want to, please leave me a comment or a kudos??


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> firstly, i want to apologise for the huge wait. this chapter was initially supposed to be posted on august 18, but then my laptop broke. it spent about ten days in the store & they couldnt fix it, so they decided to just extract all my files for me. unfortunately, they could only save about 97% of my files. guess which percentage this fic fell under :)))))). i ended up losing 14k of the next chapter bc im an idiot who didnt save anything on my onedrive or on google docs, and tbh a whole lot of motivation. i genuinely didnt think i was ever going to finish this - but here is the final chapter, finally, at a whopping 35.7k.
> 
> thank you so so so much for all your lovely comments and support. it was honestly the only motivation i needed to finish this.

_Vallis Tech_ has monthly ‘team building exercises’ designed to reward its employees, strengthen existing relationships and build new ones. It’s a moderately prestigious event; even interns are invited, and everyone is encouraged to attend at least nine throughout the year. Laurent, so far, has been invited four times, and he’s said no every time. Although Damen has assured him that team building exercises is just code for dinner and games like trivia, Laurent has never felt inclined to attend. He’s not a _Vallis Tech_ employee, for one, and he’s not suave enough to spend an entire evening networking and making small talk to brilliant minded engineers and the like. Even the interns intimidate him.

So, on the eighteenth, when Laurent receives the now commonplace, formally worded email inviting him to the _Vallis Tech_ team building exercise, he doesn’t bat an eye, until he notices something different. It’s not the invitation itself which surprises Laurent, but the sender. In fact, his thumb hovers over the ‘Decline Invitation’ button for barely a split second, before he properly notices the sender. Makedon has attached the e-invite, alongside a short comment: _I would be honoured to have you there._ It makes Laurent ridiculously happy. He’s never been the sort of person who makes good impressions – first, or otherwise – and to have such an esteemed member of _Vallis Tech_ like him this much after just a few minutes is a nice, good feeling.

Laurent clicks ‘Accept Invitation’.

When he tells Damen about his decision to attend the company’s dinner the following Friday, Damen is, as usual, visibly satisfied.

“Makedon has been bullying me for months to get you to attend,” he says. Smiling like that, it deepens the dimple on his cheek, so it’s like a textured indentation across his face. Laurent can’t look away. “I think if you didn’t come to this one, he would have showed up at your dorm room and dragged you off.”

Laurent flushes, warmed by the thought. “I’m just glad he likes me.”

Damen says, “Well, it’s difficult not to,” which makes the colour on Laurent’s face cling to his ears.

Except now that Laurent is faced with an upcoming, daunting dinner with high-profile businessmen, he’s laden with a thrumming anxiety that seeps into his skin. He spends the rest of the week worrying about how everyone is going to assess him, what he’s supposed to say, _if_ he’s supposed to say anything at all, or just sit passively throughout the meal.

Late Friday afternoon, it begins raining. It’s not a heavy downpour, but it is humid, and leaves the smell of rain clinging to the asphalt outside. It also ruins Laurent’s hair.

Alexon had tried to park as close as possible to the restaurant, a suburban Korean barbeque place that apparently houses a five-hundred-year-old sauce recipe that has remained unchanged, to no avail; Laurent still manages to get wet on the brief walk up the street.

“Fuck, fuck!” he mutters, eyeing himself on his phone camera. His hair is plastered to his forehead, now a dark gold, and is frizzing. Fuck Marlas weather, honestly, he thinks. He wishes he was back in Arles, where it is cool and fine, according to his parents. His new blue dress shirt is also ruined; the water on it has created an obvious, large stain over his shoulders, darkening the colour of the fabric to a severe shade. He looks like he’s growing mismatched spots on his shirt.

Laurent casts his gaze up to the heavens; half exasperated, half annoyed. This is what he gets for caring about his appearance so much; his sin of vanity is being punished.

He waits outside for a few more minutes, wondering if he should bother trying to salvage his hair. In the end, he just pushes it off his forehead and tries to muster a confidence he doesn’t feel.

The restaurant is cosy; as Laurent pries open the door, a warm gust of air greets him, and he shivers in appreciation. _Jung’s_ is a historic, celebrated place, which only sources organic meats and ingredients. Of course, it comes with a hefty price tag. Laurent’s eyebrows had risen at some of the listed prices when he had looked up this place online. At least the employees at _Vallis Tech_ can’t complain about their bosses being frugal.

He’s immediately greeted by a handsome man in a well-cut suit. “Are you here as a guest of Messrs Vallis?”

“Yes,” Laurent says, and then he’s promptly ushered into a large, back room with yellow-tinted lighting and wood panelled walls.

Laurent’s heart triples in rate. There’s already a good amount of people crowded around this private room. There are several booths, bright red in colour, but no one has seated themselves yet. Instead, everyone seems to be content with milling about, dressed in blazers and knee-length dresses, drinking. No one pays particular attention to Laurent; he’s met with barely interested glances every few moments.

For a moment, Laurent regrets ever saying yes to this invitation.

He just plasters himself to wall, until blessedly, he hears, “Laurent!”

“Yes? Uh, I mean hello!” Laurent turns to face Makedon. The man is dressed ridiculously casual: a polo shirt and jeans adorned with grass stains. His sneakers, while expensive, are scuffed and dirty at the tips.

“Ha!” Makedon grabs his hand tightly and shakes it with a vigour that would put a man half his age to shame. “Good to see you again! And don’t mind the outfit – I was out golfing with a client this morning!” Makedon’s eyes are fever-bright and he seems incapable of ending his sentences without an exclamation point. He is drunk, sated, and for some reason, this relaxes Laurent more than anything. “Come, come!” Makedon ushers him through the crowd, stopping at random intervals to say, “This is Arnoul!” or “Naos!” or “Stavos!”

Like last time, everyone is polite, if a little indifferent to Laurent’s presence. Although, there are some unconcealed jealous looks from a few employees, whose lips remain curled when Makedon jovially smacks Laurent’s shoulder.

Damen and Kastor are the last to arrive. Both have affable, twinned smiles on their faces. Kastor is straight-backed in a pinstriped three-piece suit; Damen, standing next to him, is more boyish and relaxed, in a too-tight dress shirt and slacks. This time, Laurent determinedly does not look at his crotch.

Damen lingers at the doorway for a while; a few people have eagerly cornered him, but soon he is making resolute steps towards Makedon and Laurent.

Makedon greets him with enthusiasm; his voice is so loud it booms across the space. Damen is amused, Laurent can tell by the quirk of his lips. “I thought the whole point of meeting up with Guymar today was not to get drunk?”

“Ha!” Makedon says. “When a man offers you a tumbler of Dalmore 62, Damianos, you do nothing but accept.”

“Oh, wow,” says Laurent, before he can really stop himself, “aren’t there only like, twelve bottles of that in the whole world? My friends and I tried to recreate the recipe last year, but all we did was mix super cheap scotch and a shit load of cinnamon together and it tasted so bad we had to flush it down the toilet.”

Makedon’s gaze is brimming with pride. He grasps Laurent’s shoulder, so they meet eye to eye. “You are truly the son I wish I had.”

Laurent meets Damen’s eyes over Makedon’s shoulder. Damen has his lips pressed tightly together to prevent himself from laughing. It makes him look even younger, and thrills Laurent.

Bemused, and a little embarrassed, Laurent chokes out, “Thank you.”

Makedon is still talking, “Next time I have an appointment with Guymar, I’ll bring you along, don’t worry.” 

“Oh, sure.”

Damen loses his battle and lets out a loud laugh. “Yes, please come, I think Kastor would lose his mind.”

Laurent’s mind briefly shutters over the phrase, _please come,_ because he’s imagined Damen saying it to him multiple times, except in scenarios where there is less clothes and less space between them. Praying his face isn’t doing anything inappropriate, he keeps his eyes trained on Makedon, who is now leaving for the bathroom, with a promise he’ll be right back. 

Damen decides to intercede the distance between them. His fingers reach for the loose strand of hair on Laurent’s head and he tugs on it, amused. “Your hair is doing very interesting things today.”

“Shut up,” Laurent flushes. “It got wet and ruined hours of work.”

“Hours, really? I always thought you just rolled out of bed looking like that.”

“Like what?”

Damen raises an eyebrow. “You know what you look like.”

Laurent’s toes curl in his shoes and he inhales, sharp and short. It feels distinctly stupid, but he says, “Well, now you’ve seen me in bed, too.”

He means the photo he sent out last week. He knows Damen knows what he means.

Damen’s face does something interesting, then. Not quite a grimace, but the lines around his eyes, mouth, forehead, all compress. His body is stiff, too, as if held tight with string.

This is not the reaction Laurent expected – or wanted. Horrified, he rushes to say, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to –”

“No.” Damen, sensing his panic, is quick to correct his course. “No, don’t – it was…it was a nice photo.”

“Was it?” Laurent asks, not to be coy; a part of him genuinely wants to know.

“Yes,” says Damen. His throat scrapes out the word.

There’s a tense pause. 

If Laurent were a braver man, he might finally meet Damen’s eyes and kiss him, the way he’s wanted to since he was fifteen.

Instead, he looks away, eyes flitting over the other side of the room, careful not to stare at anyone for a beat too long.

When the silence has gone on long enough, Laurent asks, “Shouldn’t we be sitting down now?”

Damen checks his watch. It’s metallic, clunky; Damen makes it seem stylish. It’s not a brand Laurent recognises, but it’s the one Damen wears most often.

“We should be assigned to our tables in a few minutes.”

Laurent whips his head toward him. He can’t quite keep the panic out of his voice. “Assigned? I thought we were going to be seated together?”

“It’s a luck of the draw,” Damen’s expression is apologetic. “Your number is supposed to match with three other people, and you end up seated with them. It just makes sorting trivia groups easier.”

“Ah…” Laurent bites his lip. “But couldn’t you say something? Request them to put us together?”

“Is that what you want?” Damen watches him, eyes alight. His posture is relaxed once again.

“Yes, it is.”

Damen nods, grave, at the comment. On cue, a woman with bright, curly hair begins making her way around the room, holding a glass bowl filled with folded strips of paper. Her perkiness is incorrigible, and she lingers around Kastor for a moment too long. _Intern,_ thinks Laurent.

Her eagerness doubles when she approaches Damen, but after being waved off, she presents the bowl to Laurent first, her smile more forced.

Laurent picks out the number four. The bowl is given to Damen next, who presumably, opens his mouth to let her know that he’ll sit with Laurent, regardless of the number he pulls, but then a hand claps down on Laurent’s shoulder.

“Ah!” Makedon says, peering at the paper Laurent has in his hand, “Excellent, Helen, just place Laurent and I together on table four, yes?”

Helen nods, wide-eyed.

Damen says, “Me too, please.”

Makedon’s eyes narrow and he wags his finger under Damen’s nose. Laurent is sure this is the only man in the room who can get away with that.

“Absolutely not!” he cries. He grips Laurent’s shoulder. “Laurent is my guest tonight, and he sits with me. I’d like to speak with him without you interjecting yourself into the conversation every three minutes.”

Damen looks so affronted, Laurent can’t quite manage to hold in his laugh. He only laughs harder when Damen turns his offended expression towards him.

“I’m sure we can all sit together without an issue,” Damen says.

Helen fidgets; her fingers twitch against the bowl and her expression is nervous, the task of saying _no_ to the CEO falling on her shoulders. “Two other people have already picked out the number four, sir. And there’s only four to a table…”

“Well, I’m sure –”

“No, no, this settles it!” Makedon cheers. “It’s done. Damianos can sit elsewhere. Meanwhile, Laurent and I will enjoy kicking ass in trivia, eh?”

“Sure,” says Laurent, wincing as Makedon’s excitement causes more aggressive back slapping.

Damen still hovers, unsure, until Laurent mouths, _next time._ Then he sighs, fishing out his number from the bowl.

“Nine,” he says, unenthusiastically, and it makes Laurent want to laugh all over again.

They all gather in groups, then. The other people seated at the fourth booth is Pallas, whom Laurent has already met, and a severe looking woman named Kashel.

Pallas shakes his hand good naturedly and says, “Hey man, nice to see you again.”

“You too,” says Laurent, even though their previous interaction couldn’t have lasted more than two minutes.

Laurent tries not to let his own nervousness keep him from being a diligent table mate. As the food is brought to them on the grills, rolled up strips of pork, marinated soy chicken, wagyu ribs coated in seasoning that smells so good it has Laurent’s mouth watering, conversation is mainly between the three _Vallis Tech_ members. Then, Pallas, seated across from him, asks him how university is going.

Despite Laurent’s fumbling answers and too long sentences, he seems to be amusing them. Kashel even asks him if he likes his roommate.

When Laurent says yes, she shakes her head, flicking her dark hair behind her. “I fucking hated mine. She made my first year miserable.” Taking a sip of peach flavoured soju, she adds, “The sex was really good, though.”

Pallas chokes on his mouthful of bulgogi and Laurent laughs too loud; the table across them throw a few curious glances.

Makedon, out of all of them, seems to be having the most fun. In between exclamations about ‘shitastic clients’, he relays to Laurent stories of his childhood, which involved anything from losing control of his father’s new car and crashing it into a tree to hunting a boar in Vere.

“A _boar?_ ” says Kashel, her voice laced with cynicism.

“They’re very common in Arles,” Laurent supplies, and Makedon puffs out his chest.

Pallas also comments, “I saw one too, when I visited Vere in spring. They’re a lot bigger than they seem.” 

“You’ve been to Vere?” asks Laurent. “Which parts?”

“My boyfriend lives in Barbin,” Pallas says and flushes when Kashel simpers a long drawn, exaggerated _oooh._

The food keeps coming to them, platters of meat brought forward by staff members. Every time Laurent thinks he can’t eat anymore, Makedon piles more on his plate, and he finds himself eating anyway.

By the time someone in one of the corner booths announces it’s time to begin playing trivia, Laurent is tipsy and stuffed. Judging from the slow blinking around him, he’s not the only one either. But Pallas, it turns out, is notoriously competitive. Despite his slurring, he still sits up, almost ram rod straight and stares at the man delivering questions with utmost concentration.

Laurent, although also competitive and well read, thinks of hanging back; he doesn’t want to interfere too much and seem pushy, but then Kashel kicks his foot under the table and hisses, “ _Dude,_ come on, are you falling asleep?”

Laurent can see why most people here actually enjoy these dinners; it’s a fun, relaxed way to enjoy the company of the people you work with, especially the higher ups. Someone seated across Kastor’s team calls him a cheater, and Kastor only laughs, his head thrown back.

Laurent’s team loses by two points. This upsets Pallas quite a bit. “It’s better to come dead last than come second,” he keeps insisting, to the point where Makedon tells him to shut it. Pallas does so, looking contrite, until Kashel pours him more soju.

It’s almost eleven by the time everything is finished. Makedon, now thoroughly drunk, doesn’t let him leave until Laurent promises to attend all _Vallis Tech_ team building exercises. Laurent is too flattered to say no. 

Then there’s a hand brushing against his waist, and Damen appears next to him, smiling. His face is flushed and slack. His fingers press into the small of Laurent’s back, right above his belt loops.

“Alright?” he says.

Laurent smiles, “I managed to survive.”

“Good, that’s good. Congratulations on almost winning, by the way.”

That makes Laurent snort. “Thanks.”

Someone grips his elbow to get his attention and Laurent turns to see Pallas, now in his blazer, clearly ready to leave.

“Hey, sorry, just wanted to say goodbye.”

“Oh, yes,” says Laurent, taking Pallas’ offered hand. “Thanks for such a great time. And sorry we didn’t win.”

“Nah.” Pallas’ smile is self-conscious. “It’s okay, I shouldn’t have made such a big deal about it. But I was just wondering if I could have your number? In case I end up remembering that place in Karthas I was telling you about.”

When Laurent had mentioned what he was studying, and how much he liked to read earlier, Pallas had told him about a place he and his boyfriend visited a few years ago. Apparently, it was a large, underground tomb of rare, antique books that only opened at certain times of the year for certain individuals. When Laurent had asked how Pallas had managed to go, he had gone red, and Kashel had snorted.

“His daddy’s got connections; let’s leave it at that.”

To elevate Pallas’ embarrassment, Laurent had said, “Oh, in that case, I can probably ask Damen to take me,” which then had Kashel, very curiously, ask him what his relationship with Damen was.

“Family friend,” said Laurent firmly, and his face, for once, must have been behaving because they all seemed satisfied with that response.

Now, Damen watches Laurent and Pallas exchange numbers, stoic. Pallas reaches for his hand again, and then he offers it to Damen and says, “Thanks, boss. You guys killed it.”

“See you Monday, Pallas,” says Damen, and then his hand is back on Laurent, ushering him out of the restaurant.

Outside, it’s not raining anymore, but it is still humid.

“It’s good ice cream weather,” says Damen, as they clamber into the backseat of his custom Rolls Royce (to be fucked in here is quickly climbing to the top of Laurent’s bucket list). “Do you want to go get some?”

“Not really,” Laurent admits, reclining into his seat. “Unless you want some,” he amends.

“Whatever you want.”

Laurent doesn’t have to think too hard about it. “There’s a twenty-four-hour bubble tea place on campus? It’s pretty good, if you don’t mind driving all the way up there.” The last part of that sentence is mostly directed at Alexon, who only smiles and starts the car.

Campus is deserted; there are only two other people at the bubble tea shop. The girl at the register looks exhausted, but her eyes travel along Damen’s frame in poorly concealed interest. Laurent wonders if he’s ever that obvious, and too worried about that answer, refuses to think much more on it. The bubble tea is cheap enough for Lauren to afford, except of course Damen doesn’t even let him think about reaching for his wallet. It really shouldn’t be so attractive, after all this time, to see Damen pull his card out of his wallet, but it is. At least Laurent is aware of his idiotic thirsting, okay.

“Let’s sit outside,” says Laurent, leading Damen to the Library Lawn, just outside.

The grass is damp beneath their shoes, but a patch of grass underneath the large oak tree in the middle of the Lawn is still dry and cool to touch.

Damen sits down on the grass, cross-legged, as if he isn’t wearing designer pants worth more than Laurent’s tuition. That shouldn’t be attractive to Laurent either.

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself, tonight,” begins Damen. “I know how nervous you were about it.”

Laurent’s face tints with colour. “It ended up being fun. Mr Makedon is really cool. And so were Pallas and Kashel.”

“Yes,” says Damen slowly. Then, “Let me know where you want to go next time. If you even want to go. I’ll see if I can arrange it.”

“Who normally decides that kind of stuff?”

Damen shrugs, “Either Kastor or Makedon. They’re pickier with the foods they like, so we usually let them choose to avoid any unnecessary drama.”

“What if I want to go all the way to Vask to try their bitto cheese? It’s the rarest in the world, you know.”

He’s not entirely serious; Damen knows this too, but he is still infuriatingly solemn as he promises, “Whatever you want.”

“You’re an idiot,” says Laurent, to cover up the sudden lust he feels.

Not long after, the wind picks up again and the clouds hover ominously. Damen glances at his watch; it’s nearing one in the morning and he curses. “Ah, shit. I’m supposed to look over some files tomorrow morning.”

“You’re going to be in the office on a Saturday morning?’

“Just until noon. Why?”

“I was planning to go up to the sixth floor to study tomorrow. Aimeric’s boyfriend is coming over and they don’t want me in the room.”

“Oh,” Damen frowns. “Is that a regular occurrence?”

Laurent shakes his head. “No, Jord lives in Arles, too, so he doesn’t come down much. It’s no trouble for me. Really.”

Damen stands up, brushing grass off his kneecaps. “Well. If you need anything, let me know.”

“Of course. In the meantime, we could go for lunch tomorrow?”

Damen smiles, wide and ecstatic, like he always does when Laurent suggests spending time together.

They make the short walk up to the staircase that leads to the carpark, even as Damen insists for Laurent to turn the other way, towards his dorm. 

Right before Damen steps back into his car, he turns to Laurent once more. “Pallas has a boyfriend.”

Laurent blinks, and it takes a while for his brain to catch up. “Yes, I know?” he says, although he can hear how unsure he sounds.

Laurent stands at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for Damen’s follow up, but he only nods his head once, curt.

Before he disappears into his car, Damen says, “I’ll take you to Karthas next week.”

Laurent smiles. “I’ll hold you to that.”

*

Jord comes to visit more often. Aimeric, who is in general, a calm person, always struggles towards the end of semester, when assessments pile up and exams dauntingly approach. Having Jord around makes Aimeric rational and productive.

The downside to it is of course this: Laurent has been forced to camp out in the sixth floor for the third weekend in a row. He doesn’t want to complain about it – at the very least, he has a place to stay, after all. But, still. In the back of his mind, Laurent can admit this: it’s annoying to be constantly packing his bag, then unpacking it, every time Aimeric’s phone chimes and he throws an apologetic, guilty look towards him.

Over the last couple of weeks since Damen first showed him this space, Laurent has only been here a handful of times. It still feels strange to have all this space to himself; moreover, it’s awkward to stand in the elevator with other employees, who don’t ever bother to hide their bafflement at seeing him press the number six. The only reason Laurent bothers to come in every once in a while is because of the way Damen’s shoulders tighten whenever Laurent admits he hasn’t been in for a few days.

“The whole point of this place was to be somewhere you could relax,” Damen insists, over and over, “if it makes you uncomfortable, then I can have somewhere else –”

“No,” Laurent always says. “Honestly, I love it.” And he does – but only once everyone in the building has gone home. Sometimes that doesn’t happen until well into the night; _Vallis Tech_ seems to house an inordinate number of workaholics.

The issue is – (and Laurent feels like the world’s most spoilt brat every time he so much as thinks about it) – the sixth floor, for all its furnishing, doesn’t include a bed. While the sofas are comfortable and pleasant to sit on, they’re still sofas, and not designed to provide a good night’s sleep. Laurent wakes up to a sore neck and stiff limbs every morning. It keeps him in a terrible mood for the rest day.

The worst part of it all is how sorry Aimeric is every time; he keeps asserting that he and Jord can rent out a motel room for the weekend, but Laurent knows they’re both not exactly well-funded and as aforementioned, he _does_ have a place to stay.

Aimeric and Jord do take him out to dinner though, as a thank you, even though Laurent says it’s unnecessary. He gets it too; if he had a boyfriend who lived miles away and could only see a few times a year, he’d be eager to kick out his roommate as well.

Laurent makes sure to head over to _Vallis Tech_ as late as he can; it’s Friday night and he’s hoping everyone has left to enjoy their weekend.

Of course, that isn’t the case. The elevator is still filled with too many people. Laurent manages to squeeze himself in.

Why doesn’t anyone here rush out at five pm like normal citizens?

A few inquisitive glances meet his; Laurent keeps his smile polite, but tight.

A kind, elderly woman gives him a solicitous smile when he presses the number six in the elevator.

“I don’t think you can go up there, dear,” she says. “Which department are you looking for?”

Laurent hates this. “No – I have the right floor, thanks.” He’s not as nice as he should be, but after the third week repeating the same conversation with different people, he’s exhausted.

The woman’s kindness evaporates into the air; she’s now gazing at him with a shrewd, suspicious glance.

If she asks to see his ID like the man from last week, he is going to lose it.

Thankfully, by the time he reaches the sixth floor, he’s the only one left. Laurent dumps his bag onto the floor and collapses on the sofa, a little dramatic. He’s alone though; he’s allowed to be as dramatic and whiny as he wants.

He’s sluggish as he drags himself to the bathroom to freshen up and change. He doesn’t feel like studying today; the only thing that sounds appealing to him right now is stuffing himself with an unorthodox amount of junk food and watching true crime documentaries.

Damen, his saviour, keeps the pantries stocked just for him. Anything Laurent wants is tucked away, ready to be consumed. So Laurent ambles into the kitchenette area to make himself a cup of hot chocolate. As he’s throwing away the packet into the garbage bin, the elevator door opens. He whirls around in surprise to see Damen stride in, hair mussed and suit impeccable.

“Hey,” Laurent says. He’s in his pyjamas – not the luxurious silk ones Damen had given him, because he’d forgotten to pack it. It’s just Auguste’s old shirt and a pair of sweatpants from way back when.

Damen gives him a small, quizzical smile. “Hey,” he says. “I didn’t know you would be coming back here tonight.”

Laurent shrugs and offers a simple, “Jord.”

“Again?”

“Yes. But it’s fine. I don’t mind.”

Damen’s look suggests he doesn’t believe him. Still, he shrugs and leans against the stone countertop to peer at Laurent. “Sorry for barging in here unannounced. Margaret called me up to say someone unauthorised was up on the sixth floor.”

Laurent guesses Margaret must’ve been the lady in the elevator. “It’s just me in here.”

“I figured.”

Laurent gestures to his mug. “Do you want some?”

Damen smiles. “I shouldn’t.” He pats his flat stomach like there aren’t tight, defined abs underneath his shirt. (Laurent knows there definitely are from scrolling through Damen’s Instagram for hours).

Damen stays for a little while longer, even as Laurent tells him to go home; it’s almost nine and Damen has been trying to muffle his yawns for the last ten minutes.

“I feel bad about leaving you here alone,” Damen admits.

Laurent rolls his eyes. “I’m not ten, Damen. I can manage to spend a few nights by myself.”

“Still,” Damen says, which seems to be the root of his argument. “I feel bad. You’re literally sleeping on a sofa.”

“It’s a nice sofa.”

“It’s still a sofa.”

Privately, Laurent agrees. He’s not going to tell Damen that though.

“It’s still a lot better than the dormitory beds.” He nudges Damen’s shoe with his bare foot. “You don’t have to worry so much.”

“Okay,” Damen concedes. “If you get scared, call me.”

That makes Laurent laugh – and then he laughs harder when he realises Damen is completely serious.

*

Someone manages to take a photo of the night Damen and Laurent sat together, drinking their bubble tea and to Laurent’s surprise, it ends up in a tabloid article.

The photos aren’t particularly good; they’re obviously shot from a distance. Damen is distinguishable, with his curls and his attire, but Laurent, who is staring at the ground in the photo, is unidentifiable.

Laurent can imagine someone looking out of their dorm window, spotting Damen, and then snapping a few blurry pictures.

 _Morning Marlas,_ apparently, has no issues with the quality of the photos; the next morning, Auguste shares a link of the article on his Facebook wall.

The headline is amusing. It reads: _Damen Vallis spotted with new boy toy?!,_ and then there’s an equally, if not more, amusing subheading, _Is the multimillionaire playboy finally ready to settle? Sources say yes!_

The article does nothing more than speculate whether Damen is in a relationship with a “young, mysterious blonde”, probably for legal reasons, although there is mention over how “cosy” they seemed together. There’s also a quote from someone who works for Damen, who wishes to remain anonymous. It says, _Damen is very excited about his new boyfriend. Although it’s only been a few months, he’s already eager to propose! He even went ring shopping with his brother on a company trip to Ios!_

The rest of the article maliciously dissects Damen’s previous relationships, and how they fell apart. It makes Laurent feel sorry for Damen.

Auguste’s share has fifty-two reacts. Forty people have clicked on the laughing react and Auguste’s caption is: _HAHHAHHA thank you Morning Marlas for making my freaking day!!! Damen I can’t wait to call you my bro in law HAHAHA!!_

Most of the comments are from Auguste and Damen’s mutual friends. One of them says, _it’s about time bro LMAO bachelor party at Cavalli?_ and another that’s simply, _wait is that laurent?? holy shit when did he grow up??_ (Laurent doesn’t even recognise the person who commented that).

Damen is the last person to comment. It has by far the most likes.

_Lol sorry to break it to you guys but I didn’t buy a ring in Ios…I bought one in Patras ;)_

Laurent likes it.

*

Laurent sends a photo of a baby pink sweater to Damen while in the middle of procrastinating on his assessment. The picture is from a high fashion blog on Tumblr, and there is no label, tag, caption or anything distinctive enough for Damen to know where to purchase this. Laurent is curious to see what he does.

The package arrives a week later; Mathelin drops it off at Laurent’s dorm room with his usual impassiveness. 

The sweater is the softest thing he’s ever felt in his life; more than his sheets and more than anything in his winter wardrobe. Laurent rubs his cheek against it, like a content cat. The colour is lovely, muted and soft; the picture doesn’t do it justice.

There’s a note at the bottom of the box.

_I can’t wait to see you in it._

_D.V._

*

Damen is incapable of letting things go, Laurent realises. It must be a good mindset to have when you’re running a business, but Damen seems to be using this particular skill of his to wear Laurent down.

Damen’s new goal is to apparently buy Laurent an apartment.

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” he informs Laurent over brunch. “Ever since I first saw your dorm room. It’s too small. I don’t understand how universities expect two fully grown adults to co-exist in such a small space.”

“It’s literally no big deal,” says Laurent. He’s still a little red from when Damen had hugged him earlier; Damen’s hand had accidentally brushed along his ass. “I mean, you went to uni too. Surely you remember that it wasn’t that bad.”

“Er –” Damen begins, sheepish. “I didn’t live in a dorm?”

Laurent frowns. “But I thought you and Auguste were roommates?”

“We were…just not in the dorm. We had our own place.”

Now that Laurent thinks about it, he can’t recall a time when Auguste has explicitly ever said he ever lived in a dorm room. Son of a bitch.

So, Laurent only says, “You mean it was your place and Auguste just lived there.”

“Well, yes.”

“It doesn’t matter anyway. I can’t just move out. I’m required to stay in my dorms until the end of the year. My contract is –”

Damen flaps a hand. “Look who you’re talking to. I can sort that out, no problem.”

At this point Laurent is sure he could. Still –

“I don’t need an apartment, Damen.”

“I’ve already bought you one. I can’t just return it.”

Laurent laughs. He thinks Damen is joking.

Damen isn’t joking.

The key card is pressed into his palm. The heat of Damen’s hand lingers over his knuckles as he folds Laurent’s hand over it.

“Look. If you don’t want to use it, then fine. But it’s there if you change your mind.”

“But –” Laurent flounders. “I –”

Damen smirks. His dimple is a stark mark on his face. “Have I made you speechless?” he laughs.

Laurent can only shake his head. It makes Damen laugh more.

Laurent tries to protest again. He’s being logical about this, no matter how much his own body is yelling at him to jump on Damen right now.

Damen waves off his arguments. “I should have done this sooner. I should have realised how awkward it must be for you to stay up at the sixth floor, especially when most people are aware of it.”

Laurent swallows. That part is kind of true. “That doesn’t mean – Damen, I really like the sixth floor. It’s an amazing space.”

“It’s not somewhere you can live though. And your roommate has a boyfriend now, and I’m sure they would appreciate this, too. They can’t just keep kicking you out of the room every other day.”

Laurent stares at him in amazement. He feels like screaming at the top of his lungs. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“No.” Damen says so seriously it should be laughable. It isn’t. It’s everything but. It’s making Laurent sweat and feel flushed and like he’s going to collapse onto the table any minute now.

“You – Why are you so – _ugh._ ” Laurent buries his face into his arms. The key card is still nestled in his palm.

“Why am I so ugh?” Damen repeats in amusement.

“Shut up.” Laurent says, though it comes out muffled and not at all threatening.

“Do you want to go see it?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

Laurent can hear the clinking of silverware around them. Damen continues eating; Laurent doesn’t think he can stomach anymore smoked salmon at this stage.

Damen’s expression is innocent when Laurent finally lifts his head.

“Where is it?”

“Central Marlas. It’s a twenty minute drive to uni, but a lot closer to everything else.”

Laurent bites his lip. “I want to see it.”

Damen grins, the flash of his teeth a startling white against his face.

“Come on,” he says, stepping around the table and hauling Laurent to his feet. Good call, because Laurent doesn’t think he could move himself. “No time like the present.”

The apartment is in the heart of the city and is a two-minute walk from the station.

(“But don’t worry about that,” says Damen. “The private car service can take you anywhere you need to go.”

“And the jets,” Laurent says. He’s trying to be funny, but his response is choked and spellbound.

“And the jets,” says Damen, nodding). 

Laurent is on the fourteenth floor; he doesn’t think he’s ever been this high in his life. Damen takes the key card from Laurent’s clammy palm and opens the door with an exaggerated fanfare.

Laurent’s mouth drops open when he walks in. There’s sweat gathering along the lines of his palm. He whirls on Damen.

“It’s _furnished_?”

“Isn’t it supposed to be?” Damen frowns.

This man is going to be responsible for his death, Laurent is sure of it now.

The apartment is enormous. It’s not reasonable for only one person to live here – Laurent is certain that that thought never entered Damen’s head. It looks like something out of a catalogue; glossy tiled floors, grey sofas, modern art hung on the walls and floor to ceiling windows. Even standing at the doorway, Laurent can make out the city landscape, tall buildings and trees.

“It’s too much,” Laurent says after a moment of stunned silence.

“You haven’t even stepped inside properly.”

“And yet I know this is insane,” Laurent says. “Damen – I can’t. I can’t accept this. Okay, this is – we’ve officially crossed a line.”

For the first time since Laurent has known him, Damen looks genuinely upset.

“Come on, Laurent. Just step inside. Look at it properly.”

“That’s not the issue, Damen. I’m going to love it. I know that already. But this is –” All he can really think is _too much,_ just those words over and over.

Damen’s hands appear at this shoulder, squeezing. He shifts closer, his front to Laurent’s back. “Hey,” it’s a whisper in his ear. Damen’s breath is warm, and his cologne is sharp and musky. “Let’s just sit down for a minute, yeah?”

Laurent nods. Damen steers him to one of the sofas in the open living room.

“Are you going to freak out on me every time I show you a place?” Damen says. The smile on his face doesn’t match the solemness in his eyes.

“I’m not _freaking out_ ,” Laurent says. He can’t even pretend to attempt a smile. “I’m – You keep doing these things for me and I just feel like I’m. Taking advantage of you.”

Damen’s laugh is a short, sharp sound. It’s an incredulous, are-you-serious kind of laugh.

“Laurent, that is the last thing that’s happening here.”

“But you…” The words don’t seem to want to leave Laurent’s mouth.

“Hey,” Damen says. He’s gentle, even when he’s cutting off Laurent. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what’s bothering you?”

 _Where to start_ , Laurent thinks and he’s surprised at his own bitterness.

“I just. When you give me stuff, it’s nice. And I obviously ask for things too, but sometimes I feel like you – you’re _too_ nice and maybe it’s because I’m greedy and spoilt –”

“Whoa,” says Damen, and he actually looks alarmed. “Those are pretty much the last words I would associate with you Laurent.”

“I just don’t like the thought of you wasting your money on me.”

The sunlight shines in the room in buttery slabs, highlighting the shininess of the floors even more. It somehow doesn’t suit the seriousness of their conversation; Laurent half-expects thunder to boom in a second.

Damen, however, looks like he’s just realised something. “Okay,” he says, expression open, “No matter how I say this, I’m just going to sound like an asshole – but money honestly isn’t an issue for me. Ever. And it isn’t going to be one for me any time soon, either. Plus,” Damen continues, eyebrows rising. There’s mirth dancing along his eyes. “I think I remember us having a similar conversation back in Arles. Do you remember what I said then?”

Laurent does. Obviously he does. His face flushes and he can’t meet Damen’s eyes anymore; he looks out the window, at the clear sky.

“You said you wanted to take care of me.”

“And that’s still true.”

“You also said it made you feel good to buy me things.”

“Yes,” Damen says quietly. “It does.”

“Why?”

Damen hesitates. His fingers twitch in his lap and for a brief moment, he looks conflicted. Finally, in a soft voice, he says, “This is what makes me happy. Making you happy. Like this.”

“By buying me stuff?”

“Yes.”

Damen continues, “If you want me to stop buying you things, then fine. I won’t anymore. But only if that’s because _you_ don’t want me to. Don’t do it because of however you’re imaging it might affect me.”

It almost hurts how much Laurent loves Damen at that moment. He feels like he’s just fallen harder; it’s the rawness in Damen’s face, eyes, voice. It’s ruining him. Damen is ruining him and the scariest part of it is the fact that Laurent doesn’t mind.

Shakily, Laurent wipes his palms on his jeans. His smile is watery, wobbly but still a smile as he says, “Do you think we could start the tour now?”

“Of course,” Damen says. As always, he’s willing to please. It makes tears spring to Laurent’s eyes.

*

The apartment shifts things between them. For Laurent, it becomes a symbol of how far Damen is willing to go to please him. It makes him realise, for the first time since this all started a few months ago, the extent of Damen’s wealth, yes, but also his love – because Damen must love him, even as a friend, or a brother, to be so generous, to care so much. Damen could choose to spend his money, his time – which was, in Laurent’s opinion, cosmically more valuable – with anyone, and yet, somehow, he’d chosen Laurent.

He wants to keep making Damen happy. It’s the least Damen deserves. So, he keeps requesting things. Damen has already covered practically everything Laurent needs, from his custom Tom Ford loafers to his new laptop to his entire wardrobe. Now, Laurent’s requests become elaborate and specific enough that it keeps Damen occupied for a few days to find whatever he wants, and when he does his smile is always triumphant, even more so as he watches Laurent’s reaction.

Laurent discovers things he’s never heard of; for instance, there’s an auction house called _Charls,_ founded in Vere, which sources rare, antique collectibles in the form of wine, watches, art and clothes. Damen, of course, knows all about it; Theomedes Vallis is apparently an avid art collector.

“Why?” says Damen. “Do you need anything? I can set up a buy.”

Laurent says he’ll think about it. At first, he considers getting a painting – there are a few from the Battle of Marlas that are quite valuable, but Laurent’s never been too inclined towards art. Then he scrolls through the wine listing. Damen knows by now it’s his favourite drink, and the thought of owning a rare, luxurious brand does excite Laurent. But Laurent knows Damen would want him to dig deeper, find something truly exceptional.

Laurent calls Damen later that night. “There’s a collection of love letters between two soldiers who were on opposing sides during the Battle.”

“Very scandalous,” says Damen, voice warm.

Lying in his new bed, with the merino sheets Damen bought him a few weeks ago, Laurent shivers. He presses his cheek against the silk pillow and imagines, for a moment, that Damen is behind him, smile pressed to the curve of Laurent’s ear. _Scandalous._

“Yes,” says Laurent quietly, staring out at the skyscrapers that loom over his window.

Damen is quiet for a moment too. When he speaks again, it’s brusque. “Send me the link. I’ll set it up.”

“Just like that?”

Damen smiles; Laurent can hear it, even like this. “Just like that.”

Laurent doesn’t have access to the auction when it goes live. Damen hasn’t said anything about the auction as the date approaches, but Laurent knows he’s organised everything. There’s a buyer on site for Damen. Laurent can imagine Damen in his office, suit pristine as he lists prices into his phone, uncaring of the money he’s spending. He’d only be thinking of how to get those letters to Laurent.

The auction ends at midnight. At five minutes past, Laurent’s phone rings.

“Did you get them?” he asks.

Damen laughs. “I got them.”

*

Having lunch with Damen is a rarity; their schedules don’t align often during the day. But the morning after the auction, on a warm Monday morning, Laurent tries his luck.

_i want to go shopping_

Damen’s reply comes by the time Laurent finishes pouring his cereal.

_Be ready for me by 12._

Laurent knows if Aimeric was with him, he’d say something like, “answer the door naked”. Laurent isn’t going to do that; in his head the scenario works out in his favour. Real life is unfortunately not that simple.

Damen arrives at noon, on the dot. Laurent doesn’t think he’s ever seen him dressed so simple: the jeans he’s wearing are fitted, but obviously old, and his shirt is stretched at the collar from too many washes. It’s almost funny to see the twelve thousand dollar sunglasses perched on his head and the Rolex on his wrist when he’s dressed like that.

Damen hugs him tight; the scent of his cologne lingers on Laurent’s skin.

Damen inspects his outfit, hands on his shoulders, as his eyes trace the outline of Laurent’s body, from his head to toes.

“Amazing,” he says, smiling, and Laurent preens at the compliment.

Everything Damen does is overindulgent, so obviously the shopping centre they end up at looks like a luxury resort. It’s called _Harbourside_ and Laurent knows he’s in for a ride when he spots the giant koi pond and palm trees surrounding the entrance. There’s even a yellow Lamborghini parked next to them. In fact, when Laurent leaves the car, a woman in a pantsuit is instantly at his side, “Hello, sir.” She opens an umbrella, despite the sun beaming down on them and offers to walk him to the entrance.

“Thank you,” says Damen smoothly, falling in step next to Laurent. (The poor woman has to stretch her arm quite high to make sure the umbrella doesn’t hit his head).

“Wow,” says Laurent, taken aback by the sheer size of the centre. He cranes his neck up and can see the glass dome of the ceiling from here.

“Was there anything specific you wanted?” Damen says.

“I – no?”

“Come on,” Damen steers him through the crowds with a hand on his elbow. “Some brands sell exclusive items that can only be purchased here. Do you need a new school bag? We’ll start there.”

Laurent tries to keep up with Damen’s long legs. “You know you don’t have to go crazy today or anything.”

Damen tilts his head. “I thought you wanted to go shopping?”

“Well, yeah,” Laurent fumbles. “But I don’t – I kind of just wanted –” He doesn’t want to say, _to see what you would do,_ because the answer to that is clear by now.

“What?” Damen urges, but Laurent shakes his head.

Damen is attuned to Laurent’s moods by now. Or maybe Laurent isn’t as inconspicuous as he’d like to be; either way, his discomfort is apparent as they go through each store.

Eventually, Damen stops asking what he wants altogether. At the next store they walk into, Damen points to a silk dress jacket and says, “That one, please,” to the store clerk who takes it off the rack for them, because rich people don’t do things for themselves, duh.

Damen scrutinises his appearance when he tries it on. He apparently likes it enough to buy it for Laurent in three different colours.

It’s like that at the next couple of stores; Damen, confident and laidback, picks the items he’d like to buy for Laurent while eager store clerks rush to get them. “Let me take care of you,” is all Damen says when Laurent protests against an exclusive vegan leather messenger bag right after Damen had bought him a backpack just shy of ten thousand dollars.

(Laurent does manage to tell Damen to fuck off when he points to a sequined bomber jacket).

One of the last places they go to is much smaller, in comparison to the other stores. (Which means it’s huge). It’s a jewellery store, filled with glittering cases and bright fluorescent lights, the kind that make you dizzy.

It’s the first store Laurent has been drawn to, and he tugs Damen into it. In Vere, particularly in Arles, it’s common for everyone to be decked out in jewellery. According to Aleron, it’s been a fashion trend since his grandfather’s time. Laurent knows this is true for his family: Aleron and Hennike wear rings and chains and earrings everywhere they go, no matter the event. Auguste is the same; Laurent is sure he’s never seen his brother wear less than six rings at a time.

Except it’s not the jewellery Laurent takes an interest in; it’s the wall of watches on the far side of the store. Damen has bought him watches before – of course he has, but Laurent has never favoured the style Damen likes. All his watches are thick banded, with steel faces. They look great on Damen. On Laurent’s wrist, they are too heavy.

Damen surveys the watches with him. He doesn’t offer to pick one out for Laurent this time. Laurent is careful not to press his finger up against the glass casing but he gestures to a gold watch with mother of pearl imbedded on the clock face.

“That one is nice.”

“It is,” says Damen, already calling someone over.

The person who rushes over is a balding man. He introduces himself as the manager and carefully removes the watch from the case with an exclamation of, “Excellent choice, sir!”

“Can I try it on?” Laurent asks. “I’m not sure it would look good on me.”

“Everything looks good on you,” Damen says in an undertone.

The manager beams. “Of course!”

The watch is beautiful. It feels luxurious as it is clipped onto his left wrist.

Damen steps up behind him, running his fingertips over the band of the watch. But his fingers travel further, over Laurent’s knuckles and then up to his fingernails. Laurent stares, mesmerised.

“What do you think?” his voice is barely more than a whisper.

When Damen turns to him, his nose almost grazes along Laurent’s temple. Laurent can feel the coarseness of his stubble. They are standing too close. The manager is throwing them curious glances.

Damen steps back. “It looks good. We’ll take it.”

As the watch is pried off his wrist, ready to be packaged, Laurent says. “Wait.” He looks at Damen. “I want you to try it on, too.”

“Me,” says Damen, mouth quirked.

Laurent nods. Damen obliges. He takes off his Rolex without much care and extends his now bare wrist to the manager.

It looks better on Damen. The gold is lovely against his skin tone. Laurent’s eyes are drawn to the hair on Damen’s fingers. He’s not brave enough to touch him the way Damen did.

He looks up at Damen, who is watching him. “Get it,” says Laurent. “We can match.”

“Match,” says Damen slowly, like he’s trying out the word for the first time. “Is that what you want?”

Laurent says, “Yes.”

He’s pretty sure they make the manager’s day.

*

Damen brings coffee from a local café down the road; the blend he usually favours, dark and nutty, is sourced exclusively from Mellos, and Laurent had almost spat it out the first time he tried it. (He’d also sent the _sometimes…things that are expensive…are worse_ meme to Aimeric afterwards). Now, most afternoons, Damen makes the five-minute walk to the café, just so he can buy Laurent the coffee he likes.

It’s these moments that make Laurent feel most spoilt.

Damen never complains, and he claims to like the coffee too, although he drinks it without much enthusiasm.

Laurent has already been working on his essay for forty minutes when Damen arrives at his apartment – and it still feels heady to think that this place is really _his_.

Damen’s hand offers a fleeting touch to his nape as he sets down the coffee in front of him.

“Hey,” he says, his smile a little clipped. It’s late on a Wednesday afternoon; Damen had texted him earlier in the day to let him know he’d drop by in the evening after work.

_Just until I finish a few more things_

_I’ll take you somewhere nice for dinner afterwards_

“Hey,” Laurent says back, his own smile a little dulled. He hates assessments.

Damen sits down next to him on the sturdy dining table; it’s large enough to seat up to ten people, and Laurent has toyed with the idea of bringing his study group up here, but he doesn’t think answering their questions would provide him with any relief. It’s bad enough that Aimeric thought he was a sugar baby for all those weeks; he doesn’t think his classmates will accept a different theory either.

The next few hours are spent in silence. Laurent makes good progress in his essay, and it’s only when the automatic lights flicker, then switch off, does he realise how long they’ve been sitting here, unmoving.

“Let’s take a break,” Laurent says, turning to Damen. As he does so, the lights detect his movement and turn back on.

Damen hums thoughtlessly; it’s clear he’s not paying any attention. The hair at the back of his head is sticking up, untameable, like it does whenever Damen is feeling harried. As Laurent watches, he reaches over and runs a hand over it fast, and then drops it back down to drum his fingernails over the tabletop.

Laurent slams his own hand down on top of Damen’s papers with a satisfying _thunk_. Damen jumps, just an inch, but the movement still makes Laurent’s lips twitch.

When Damen turns to finally face him, face pinched in confusion, Laurent says, “Let’s take a break, Damen. We’ve been here for hours.”

The hesitation lingers on Damen’s face. He doesn’t want to leave his work.

Laurent says, “I’m hungry. Please?”

It works like magic; Damen seems to physically pull himself out of a reverie. “Sorry,” he says, packing away his files and folders. “Sorry, shit, I shouldn’t have kept you back so long.”

“You know I don’t mind. But you need rest, too.”

Damen nods. “You’re right.” He checks his watch, smooths back his hair. “Let’s go. There’s an underwater restaurant I’ve been meaning to take you.”

Laurent eyes him. “You mean _Sublime?_ ”

There’d been a Buzzfeed article on his Facebook News Feed yesterday: _Twenty of the World’s Most_ _Luxurious_ _Restaurants_. Two of the listed places had been in Marlas, and three in Arles and Ios. Twenty feet under the ocean, with clear, impenetrable glass domes surrounding the diners, _Sublime_ was the only prominent restaurant that had caught Laurent’s eye.

Laurent had sent it to Damen in the dead of the night with a fish emoji. It had been read in the morning, but Damen had never responded. Laurent knew they’d eventually go; by now it was almost expected, but he didn’t think their visit would be arranged so soon.

Damen smiles. His eyes are brimming with fondness. “Maybe.”

Laurent shakes his head in disbelief. “How are you even real?”

Damen snorts, as though deciding to go to places where fifteen course meals are served is just an average day. And then Laurent remembers that for Damen, it is.

It’s then that Laurent becomes aware of the time; it’s almost nine, and he knows the drive to _Sublime_ won’t be short.

“Is now a good time to go, though?” he asks, and then hurries to add, “It’s just that it’s pretty late. We could always go another day,” when Damen’s looks over in confusion, expression wilted.

Damen soothes his worries. He is full of nonchalance as they amble towards the elevator. “They’ll stay open for the right price.” And then he throws Laurent a wink; cheeky and cocky all at once.

Laurent’s cock twitches in his pants; he’s glad he’s standing behind Damen and that the fabric of his pants is dark.

Alexon greets them with his usual meek politeness. He doesn’t seem bothered by the late hour.

As they drive through darkened streets, Laurent notices for the first time that day how tired Damen really looks. It’s nothing obvious, just small, subtle things. The collar of his shirt is rumpled in an unnatural fashion, his tie is loosened and the colour under his eyes is more aggressive, darker. It’s the way Damen is carrying himself too – tight, still and straight, even as his head rests against the tinted pane of the windows.

“Hey,” Laurent says quietly, so not to disturb the silence between them. Damen’s eyes flicker to him and Laurent presses his pinkie against Damen’s, right above the smoothness of his nailbed. Damen’s eyes travel to the point where they are touching and then go back up, to meet Laurent’s.

Laurent says, “I know I don’t have as much to offer, but you can still ask me for things, you know. I’m here for you, too.”

Damen’s eyes round in surprise; it changes his face into something more youthful, wonderful. Then his expression clears, a slow, deliberate change into something more collected.

“I do know,” Damen promises. His voice is hushed. “Thank you. For saying that.”

Laurent nods, and goes back to staring out the window. He doesn’t remove his finger. Neither does Damen.

*

Damen has less than a week to verify his identity and physically collect the letters.

“You can’t actually keep them,” Damen says, face repentant. “It’s required that you have to store them in a safe at a completely different location.”

“But we can still access the safe anytime, right?”

“Yes,” Damen smiles. “Anytime.”

They’re in one of Damen’s jets; this one is larger than the one Laurent had to himself. Damen is seated across him, his legs spread wide and elbows rested lazily on the arm rest. Laurent is trying to take up as little space as possible in his own seat; he’s worried if he uncrosses his legs Damen’s eyes might fall to the very thing he’s trying to hide.

Their flight to Ravenal, a town in Vere near the border of Marlas, is only half an hour long. It’s as though Laurent has only just stepped onto the plane, before there’s an announcement from the pilot informing them of their descent.

Ravenal is a historic city; much of its architecture has been preserved for thousands of years, with little to no renovation. It’s also known for its wide, sweeping fields of sunflowers and clear lakes. Laurent has only been here once, as a child, on a school camping trip. Today, he eagerly drinks in all the sights and smells; Ravenal is a busy city, with crowds of people trudging up the streets.

Damen indulges him, like always.

 _Charls_ is located in a building that was once a fort. Besides the timbered floors, everything is authentic, as an assistant tells them. The walls are stony, harsh to touch underneath his fingertips and the lighting is so dim, it feels like it’s almost night-time, despite it only being eleven or so in the morning.

“It’s to keep all the valuables safe and in optimal condition,” the assistant informs them, probably catching on to Laurent’s squinting. Her heels click against the floor; it’s soothing. “Nearly everything stored here is sensitive to light.”

They’re led through a tight corridor. Damen’s hands are warm against the small of Laurent’s back.

Charls greets them at the end, in a large room with glass casings. Behind one of them is a stunning emerald necklace.

“Mr Vallis!” Charls says, awestruck. He’s a short man, with a belly, but his smile is like soft dough, warm and crumpling. He’s wearing a large, velvet hat. There’s an ostrich feather sticking out from it. Laurent decides he already likes him.

Damen keeps his hand on Laurent while he shakes Charls’ hand. When Laurent reaches forward to shake Charls’ hand after introducing himself, Damen’s hand snakes around his back, and rests at his hip. Laurent clenches.

Charls produces a sealed file from a back room once Damen verifies his identity. Laurent heart beats in excitement as he sees it; it’s a clear folder, and already he can see the faded parchment, the ink seeped onto the pages.

They’re not allowed to open the folder inside the room; instead they’re ushered once again to a backroom that is sealed with a pair of gloves each. There are plenty of sofas, tables and chairs – it could almost look like someone’s mismatched living room.

Damen and Laurent seat themselves in a table in the far corner. Damen slides the folder towards him.

“Here, open it.”

Laurent’s palms are sweating, even beneath the gloves he is wearing. “I can’t,” he shakes his head. “You do it. Please?”

Damen does so, his smile affectionate.

There are more letters than Laurent expected, almost sixty of them, ranging from short poems to longform prose. The parchment is in good condition, despite the age; it’s yellowing and curled in the corners and some of them have dirt smeared across them, but the actual words are still readable.

The letters are between two men named Jeurre and Straton. Jeurre is a Veretian nobleman who spent most of his childhood watching his father trying to negotiate the terms of the war before it even took place. Straton is a young, newly appointed Akielon commander who is eager to prove himself. They are apparently childhood friends – but the threat of a looming war between their nations pushes them away from each other. From what Laurent can gather though, they meet again after a small raided coup in Sicyon. That’s where the letters start. Jeurre sends the first one, commending Straton on his position. He writes, _I always knew you were destined to do great things._

Damen and Laurent read through each letter. Seated side by side, their elbows and thighs press together as they carefully move through each page. Jeurre’s handwriting is much neater, written in elegant loops, while Straton’s language is choppy.

“He probably wasn’t educated very well,” Laurent muses out loud and Damen agrees.

Some of the language – especially the Akielon – is hard for Laurent to grasp. Much of Straton’s letters are embedded with political and military terms; Damen explains them to him patiently, sounding out the words and meanings for him.

It feels like hours have passed by the time they finish. The last letter, delivered by Straton is the shortest yet; barley a paragraph. In it he promises Jeurre that when the war is over, they’ll move to the countryside in Patras, away from anyone they might know.

“Are you alright?” asks Damen after a moment. His eyes are dark in the light of the room.

“Yes,” says Laurent, collecting his breath. He thinks about it. “Well, no. I’m feeling…sad. I want to know what happened to them.”

“We could always look it up,” says Damen, pragmatic.

“No!” Laurent rushes to say. “It’s just…what if it’s an unhappy ending? I don’t – they seemed to be very in love. I don’t want to think that they didn’t end up together, especially after all that.”

Damen is watching him, the lines on his face solemn, intense. When he cups the underside of Laurent’s jaw, it’s a slow, deliberate movement. Laurent stays still as Damen’s thumb presses against his rabbit-like pulse.

“You’re sweet,” says Damen, voice low and warm.

Laurent’s chest stutters. “I –” His voice cracks. “You are too.” The words tumble out his mouth too fast. “Damen, I – I don’t know how to thank you for this, for everything. I wouldn’t have been able to experience any of this without you and you, you’re always so nice. I just – thank you.” He needs to stop talking, but it’s hard to think with Damen looking at him like that, with his hand pressed to Laurent like that. Even with the glove between them, Laurent can still feel his heat.

 _Kiss me_ , thinks Laurent. _I’d let you._

He feels drunk.

It’s then Damen pulls back. Something shutters over his eyes. He glances at the tabletop, where all the letters are still spread out.

“You don’t need to thank me for anything, Laurent.”

“I thought you liked me thanking you.”

Damen’s eyes flicker to him. “I do,” he admits. It looks like it costs him everything to say it.

“Then. I – I’ll keep doing it.”

“Laurent,” Damen sighs. His voice is quiet, filled with secrets Laurent desperately wants to know.

The door opens. Charls pops his head in, beaming. “How are you two fine gentlemen going?”

Damen stands up. “We’re done here for the day. Thank you, Charls.”

Laurent has no choice but to follow.

*

A few days later, Laurent wakes up to the promise of thunderstorms. The weather in Marlas is becoming dull, and Laurent finds himself staring at the greying sky with no intention of leaving his apartment.

It’s a lazy kind of morning. Laurent spends his day mostly lying on the couch, eating salted pretzels and reruns of old _Brooklyn Nine Nine_ episodes. He thinks it’s because his brain is so unstimulated that the idea comes to him in the first place – once it does, Laurent can’t let it go.

With an uncharacteristic boldness that only seems to arise whenever Damen is involved, Laurent trudges up to his bedroom.

Everything he does is too deliberate, and he almost talks himself out of it multiple times by the time everything is done. He manages to persevere, though.

Laurent throws on the pink sweater, the one that still remains unbranded (a shame, because it really is the softest thing), his new watch, the twin of which Damen now wears too, and – the part that makes him most nervous – his lacey underwear, without any pants.

Laurent stands in front of his built-in full-length mirror and tries to pose in a way that shows off everything Damen has bought him. It takes him too long; he feels like he’s tried a hundred different poses and he’s practically sweating by the end of it.

The photo he ends up choosing is one of the first he took. His body is twisted a little, enough so his sweater rides up and the baby blue lace along his left hip is unmistakable. The curve of his ass is also more prominent from this angle, Laurent finds. For at least _some_ plausible respectability, Laurent lets his left wrist, the one with the watch, dangle in front of his crotch so his dick isn’t completely hanging out.

If he even begins to assess the sheer stupidity of this, he’ll back out, he knows, so Laurent sends the photo and then flings himself onto his bed, face first.

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid,_ he thinks.

And then his phone rings.

When he picks it up, Damen doesn’t say anything for a moment. Laurent wonders if he pressed call without thinking it through.

“Big plans for the day?” Damen finally says. He sounds awkward, which is a first.

“No,” says Laurent.

“Ah,” says Damen. He’s fumbling. “I was in a meeting when I saw – I thought I’d catch you before you left. But you’re not. Leaving. Uh –”

Laurent asks, “You left a meeting?”

“Yes.” Damen says, then quickly amends: “I mean, no, there was – we were taking a break.” A pause. “I should probably head back.”

“Okay,” Laurent agrees, giddy, and opens his mouth to say goodbye but then Damen chokes out:

“I didn’t realise how much it would suit you.”

“What?” Laurent hopes he’s talking about the underwear.

“All of it,” says Damen. “All of it.”

*

Auguste goes on work conferences frequently; it’s always been his favourite part of the job. Even before Auguste started working, he always favoured travelling. This time, his company sends him on a weeklong conference to Marlas, to assess local businesses and assist their development.

It all sounds boring to Laurent, truthfully; the only thing he latches onto that Auguste will be here, in Marlas city, for a week. He’ll spend the first few days in a swanky hotel, before spending the rest of the week at Damen’s place.

Auguste has been in Marlas for two hectic days when Laurent finally gets a call for him. Auguste asks Laurent if he is free for a late lunch, slash early dinner.

Laurent has class. He decides to skip it for his brother. Going to two out of three classes in a day still makes him a good student, right?

“I’m inviting Damen and Kastor too,” Auguste tells him over the phone.

“That’s fine,” says Laurent – and he means it.

Knowing Auguste, wherever he chooses to eat won’t be formal or restricting. After his Literature Studies class, Laurent decides not to change.

He does, however, send Damen a picture of the leggings he’s wearing.

_too inappropriate for lunch?_

Damen texts: _Depends._

_on what??_

_Whether you want people to focus on their food or on your legs_

Laurent blushes. _i wouldnt be opposed to ppl staring at my legs_

_Really._

_sure. should i ask kastor for his opinion too?? to make sure im as distracting as possible_

Damen calls him.

“There’s no need for a second opinion,” Damen says after a moment. “I think you’ll look fine.”

“I’m aiming for a bit more than fine.”

Damen clears his throat. “Well, you’re that too.”

Laurent bites his lip. “So, the leggings stay?”

“They stay.”

Their lunch-slash-dinner is at a popular Mexican food chain that Laurent finds mediocre. Auguste, he knows, loves this place.

Laurent is the last one to arrive, not by choice; his phone call with Erasmus and Vannes made him lose track of time.

Auguste squeezes him so tightly Laurent’s ribs hurt. His hair is longer now, and still just as dishevelled. At least the blazer he is wearing is nice. His brother looks at him appraisingly. “You look different.” His tone is a little strange.

Laurent doesn’t even try to glance at Damen. He says, “Sleep deprivation and too much caffeine does that to you.”

Auguste softens. “You work too hard.”

Damen hugs him next. Like Auguste, his hug is too tight, but Laurent just presses his nose to Damen’s neck and clings to him. Kastor and he don’t hug, just exchange polite nods.

Damen’s eyes are undeniably on his legs.

He doesn’t look anywhere else the entire meal.

*

Auguste decides to extend his stay at Marlas, until the end of the weekend. He camps out at Damen’s place, and whatever mayhem the two get up to is enough to trigger the nostalgic urge to throw a party.

“Just like the old days.” That’s how Auguste sells it to Laurent over the phone. Laurent is on the way to uni, and he has a headache. “We’re planning on inviting a whole bunch of people from uni. It’s gonna be awesome.”

“Sounds fun,” Laurent says. “I’m sure it’ll be great.”

“Fuck yeah it will,” Auguste cheers. He’s eating something that requires an unnatural amount of chewing. Laurent has to keep the phone away from his ear so he isn’t subjected to the horrid noises. “You’re invited too, obviously.”

“Thanks,” Laurent says, laughing. “But I’d honestly rather not go.”

“Why not?” That’s Damen’s voice, wary and rough; according to Auguste they crashed at six in the morning after drinking all night.

“…You’re on speaker by the way,” Auguste informs him.

Laurent mentally groans. Explaining his aversion to social events to Auguste is hard enough; he doesn’t feel like mentioning it to Damen either. His headache is worsening.

“You just said it’s a party for your uni friends. I wouldn’t know anyone there and I’d just end up feeling awkward.”

“Aww, Laurent don’t be like that!” Auguste says. He sounds genuinely distressed. “It won’t be awkward. And there will be people you know!”

“Damen doesn’t count,” says Laurent.

“I don’t?” Damen asks.

Auguste scoffs, “Nah, not Damen. Berenger is for sure coming. You remember Berenger right?” Before Laurent can answer, Auguste addresses Damen with an offhand, “Laurent had the biggest crush on him, man. He used to sit around waiting for us to finish up with football practice –”

“Oh my god, shut _up_!” Laurent whines. “I was literally twelve.”

Auguste guffaws. It’s the goofiest sound ever. “It was very cute. But seriously, you should come. It’s gonna be so much fun. And you’ll meet a shit ton of new people.”

Meeting a whole lot of new people isn’t the best way to convince an introvert to go partying, but Laurent appreciates his brother for trying.

“I’ll think about it,” says Laurent and when Auguste begins protesting, he continues, “No, seriously I will. I just have an assessment due soon. It’s a big one.”

It’s not exactly a lie, but his essay is due four days after the party, so even if Laurent goes, he’ll still manage to finish it. Right now though, it’s his safety net.

“Alright,” Auguste sighs. “but please try to make it, alright?”

“We want you to be there,” Damen adds.

“I’ll think about it,” Laurent repeats before hanging up.

Laurent rests his head against the cool window glass, sighing in relief as it elevates some of the tension gathering at the back of his skull. Auguste’s stories over the years about his and Damen’s parties have always been wild and outrageous. Laurent doubts this party will be as unhinged (Auguste and Damen are in their thirties and distinguished businessmen, after all) but it’s still not appealing to him. The only temptation lies with Damen; seeing him and seeing his apartment for the first time. Except Laurent can do that whenever he wants.

He’s definitely not going.

*

The morning of Auguste and Damen’s party, Laurent wakes up to the buzzing of his phone. At first he thinks it’s an incoming call, and then he realises his phone is lighting up with messages from Damen.

_Is your assessment finished?_

_If it is come over tonight_

_I’d really like to see you_

_No pressure though_

_But I’d really like you to come_

_So I can see you_

_Also is this double texting_

_I never got wht that mean_

_I’m texting to much_

_Sorry_

_I’m drunk_

_Come over tonight_

_If you can_

_Or want. That’s important_

_So if you want or if you can_

_Come_

_Itll be fun_

_Ok bye_

Laurent is pink cheeked and grinning maniacally by the end of it all.

He decides to go. Of course he does.

*

The man who opens the door to Damen’s apartment is shirtless and very drunk. He doesn’t say anything to Laurent, just squints at him with an eerie kind of concentration, so Laurent slips past him, careful not to touch.

Laurent could hear the music as he stepped out of the elevator; he’s not surprised by how loud and chaotic it is inside. It’s still a lot different to what he was expecting. Why he thought his brother would host something somewhat sophisticated is beyond him.

It’s very dark in here, too; Laurent thought he’d be able to scope out the interior of Damen’s place, except it seems futile now, with the sheer amount of people in the living room alone. All he can gather is that Damen really likes the colour red; the sofas, chair and some of the art are all bleeding crimson.

The shirtless man from the door ambles his way over to him. He smells of sweat but is surprisingly articulate, despite how red his eyes are. “Who’d you say you were looking for again?”

“Uh, Auguste?”

“Oh, right.” He nods, keeps squinting at Laurent. “Brother?”

“Yes,” says Laurent. Realising he’s being a bit rude, he sticks out his hand. “I’m Laurent.”

The man takes his hand with his own. They’re very sticky and Laurent makes sure to end the handshake quickly. “Orlant. I work with Auguste.” He thinks for a moment. “Technically, for. But he’s a chill dude.”

“Yes,” says Laurent. It’s a bit surreal to think of Auguste managing anyone. “Is he around somewhere?”

Orlant has to lean closer to hear him. Laurent repeats himself and to his surprise, Orlant throws his arm around Laurent with a, “Sure!” and guides him toward the kitchen.

Laurent tries not to stiffen at the touch on his shoulder. Orlant remains oblivious and continues pushing past people to steer him in the right place.

There are even more people in the kitchen, which is a stunning marble white; everyone is surrounding the plates of food set on the benchtop. Auguste is leant against the dining table, talking to an ample group, but when Orlant and Laurent make their way across, he stops talking mid-sentence to beam at them. His expression sours a little when he sees where Orlant’s hands are resting.

“Oi,” Auguste warns Orlant. “Don’t go grabbing my baby brother like that.” He pulls Laurent from Orlant’s grasp with a huff; everyone around them laughs but Laurent knows how overprotective Auguste is. He’s not kidding. Laurent also knows his brother is very drunk because Auguste kisses him on the forehead in greeting, something he hasn’t done since Laurent was ten.

He presents Laurent to the group like he’s a shiny prize. “Everyone, this is Laurent. Laurent, everyone.”

“Er, hi,” Laurent says, trying not to flush at the number of eyes that fall on him with interest.

Someone asks him how old he is. When Laurent says nineteen, a woman with dark hair gapes. “Oh my gosh,” she says, “so you’re _literally_ still a baby. The way Damen goes on about you, I thought you were way older.”

“He’s very mature,” Auguste supplies proudly when Laurent fails to articulate a suitable response. Patting Laurent on the back he says, “Do you want a drink? Let’s go get a drink.”

“Yes please,” says Laurent, maybe a touch too enthusiastically.

Damen always has an excellent supply of alcohol, so Laurent is a bit surprised – and disappointed – when Auguste leads him to a table that has a drink dispenser filled with something that looks like slop.

“It’s good,” Auguste huffs when Laurent peers at it suspiciously. “Damen and I spent all morning making it. We got drunk off it, too.”

“It looks shit.”

“Fuck off,” Auguste laughs. “It’s amazing, I swear! There’s a five-thousand-dollar whiskey in there.”

Laurent’s mouth drops open. “You guys poured a _five-thousand-dollar whiskey_ in that?” The audacity! he thinks. “What else did you mix it with?”

Auguste winks. “It’s a secret. But it’s good stuff. Here.” Auguste pours him cup.

Laurent takes a tentative sip. It’s terrible. He doesn’t bother to hide his grimace. Someone needs to stop Auguste and Damen from unleashing this monstrosity into the world. He wonders what Makedon would think of this.

“Oh, fuck off,” Auguste says again. “You’re just a snob.”

“I want wine,” says Laurent. “Isn’t there any wine?”

Auguste ignores him. “Let me introduce you to some people.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Sorry, what was that? You can’t wait? Excellent!” Auguste grips his elbow and steers him back into the living room. Laurent doesn’t want to give Auguste the satisfaction of knowing he made Laurent laugh, so Laurent only does so when Auguste turns around.

All of Auguste’s friends are nice. Laurent is terrible at small talk, but no one seems to mind; they carry most of the conversation for him, which Laurent is grateful for.

Auguste is…something else. Laurent has never socially hung out with his brother like this; whenever they go out, it’s usually just the two of them, or their family or – as has been lately – Damen too. But it’s so clear how much everyone genuinely seems to like Auguste; they all flock towards him and he doesn’t have to work hard to keep their attention. No matter what he says, everyone is eager to listen to him.

That’s never been the case for Laurent. He’s never been able to make friends easily. It took him more than a year to properly talk to his roommate – that in itself should be a good indicator of what his social life is like.

With an unexpected jolt, Laurent realises he’s jealous of Auguste – and that’s not something Laurent wants to feel when it comes to his brother, ever. He should be proud that his brother is this way, but standing here, listening to Auguste recount a story that has everyone laughing, a cold pit settles into Laurent’s stomach instead.

“I’m going to go top up,” says Laurent after a moment. He’s barely drunk the awful concoction; Auguste doesn’t seem to notice this. He only smiles and waves him off.

Laurent throws his cup in the bin and decides to go get another drink – a proper one this time. He knows Damen must have something decent stored somewhere.

The corridor is dark and besides the queue for what he assumes is the bathroom, it’s empty. At first, he is unsure where to go; the kitchen is overcrowded, it’s too cold to step out onto the balcony and there’s a polite, yet firm note attached to the stairway railing warning guests not to go upstairs, where Laurent assumes Damen’s bedroom is.

Laurent internally debates with himself and then decides if there’s anyone who could get away with ignoring the note, it’d be him.

It’s dark enough that it’s easy for Laurent to slip away, unnoticed. The stairs are made of clear glass; Laurent has never been particularly afraid of heights but seeing everyone gathered beneath his feet still makes his head spin a little.

Upstairs is blessedly quiet. The corridor is wide, brightly lit with spotlights, so that the wooden floors gleam. All the doors are closed. Laurent almost feels bad about being up here; then, there’s loud, raucous laughter from downstairs and he thinks that no, he’d definitely rather be here.

The first door opens easily, to his surprise; Laurent had assumed Damen had locked all of them.

It’s an office; there’s a large, mahogany desk in the centre of the room and to the right, there’s an inbuilt floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, crammed with hardbacks and leather bound books.

Laurent’s fingertips skim over the edge of the desk as he makes his way over to the bookshelf. There’s no rhyme or reason to the way it’s been sorted. Laurent can imagine Damen just shoving titles onto the shelves without even looking at them. Except, Damen has always shown care for his books, so Laurent assumes this is the work of an assistant and Damen has never had the time to correct it.

Laurent hears the soft thud of footsteps as he pries of a limited edition of _Winnie the Pooh,_ bounded in blue morocco _._ Laurent remembers reading that there are only three hundred copies of this in the entire world; of course Damen has just kept it here, unassuming, without a second thought.

Speaking of – the footsteps round the corner and then Damen is peeking his head through the door. When he spots Laurent, his face crumples with the force of his grin. Laurent is sure his own smile is splitting his face, too.

“Hey,” says Damen. He’s flushed, and his eyes are dark. It’s obvious he’s pleasantly drunk; Damen rarely looks this exuberant. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“Have you?” Laurent smiles. He sets the book back into place.

Damen makes his way over. Everything about him is relaxed. His white shirt is unbuttoned to an almost indecent degree; it highlights the broadness of his shoulders, and his tan chinos are doing wonders for his thighs. The gold watch glints on his left wrist. Laurent is wearing his own one, too.

“Yes,” Damen says, and Laurent has to deliberately pull himself back to reality; he’d almost forgotten what they were talking about. “I thought you might be in the bathroom; I was waiting outside the door like a creep for almost ten minutes.”

Laurent laughs, heart fluttering. There’s a delightful press against his chest, so unlike the feeling he had earlier.

“You could have called me,” says Laurent and then laughs again when Damen blinks and says, “Oh.”

There’s a stillness in the air between them. Laurent feels like he’s somehow floating and drowning at the same time as Damen’s eyes fix on his face before beginning its descent, over his body.

Laurent is wearing that pink sweater and jeans that are inappropriately tight. He knows Damen is thinking about the last time Laurent wore this sweater, in the photo he sent to Damen. As if in a trance, Damen’s hand reaches out, and curls against his hip. His thumb presses down, right against his hipbone. Laurent can’t stifle the sound that escapes his mouth.

Damen’s eyes are stormy when they meet his. There’s an unspoken question in them, _are you wearing them?_

Laurent almost says, _take off my pants and see for yourself._

Only, his bravado is non-existent in this moment. All Laurent can do is gaze back at Damen helplessly instead of falling to his knees, like he desperately wants to.

“I was looking for a drink,” Laurent blurts, when the silence begins pricking at his skin. He winces at the volume of his voice.

Damen steps back. “A drink? There’s some downstairs.”

“No – not that terrible shit you and Auguste made,” he says. “Sorry,” he adds, when Damen’s eyes widen.

“Ah…” Damen rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, it is a bit of an…acquired taste.”

“I can’t believe you wasted such good alcohol,” says Laurent. He’s not going to ever get over that poor whiskey. He doesn’t even like whiskey and he’s still mourning for it.

Damen’s mouth quirks. “In my defence, making it at eight in the morning while hungover was a pretty good idea.”

Laurent snorts. He’s about to make a comment on how stupid Auguste and Damen act when they’re together, but then Damen is saying, “I may have few bottles of Cheval Blanc in my bedroom, if you want.”

It sounds like a line. Laurent watches Damen’s face, but it hasn’t turned suggestive or salacious. It’s still earnest, boyish.

Laurent says, “I want to see your bedroom.” That isn’t supposed to sound like a line either; thankfully, Damen doesn’t appear to think it is. He just smiles and nods, and then he’s ushering Laurent back out into the hallway.

Damen’s bedroom is at the very end of the hall; it’s almost tucked away. Laurent can’t help of think of all the people Damen has brought over. Was this how they felt too? This slow, building anticipation? Damen’s hands are on the small of his back, as they often are these days, and Laurent wonders who else Damen has touched like this as he led them to his bedroom with the promise of a good, hard fuck.

He needs to stop torturing himself. Laurent turns off his brain as Damen opens the door for him; again, it’s not locked. Damen has too much trust in his guests.

Damen’s bedroom is something out of a _I’m rich, fuck you_ kind of magazine. The bed is enormous, decked out in dark, silk sheets. The wall fixture behind it is composed of soft lighting and dark wood. And the view from the windows is incredible; it feels like the entire city of Marlas is laid out beneath them.

Laurent is still looking around as Damen walks over to the wide double doors on the other side of the room; when he pulls it open, there’s a small drinking station, with everything from coffee pods to rich wine.

Laurent ignores the armchairs in the corner of the room and sits on the edge of the bed that overlooks the city. Damen ambles over, with two glasses and as promised, a bottle of Cheval Blanc.

“This is really good,” says Laurent, taking more than a generous sip. The wine is rich, acidic on his tongue.

“It is,” Damen agrees.

“I can’t believe you’re not serving this downstairs. Your poor guests.”

Damen snorts, rolling his eyes. “Please, I guarantee you more than half of them drink stuff like this on a daily basis. Auguste and I are doing them a favour, expanding their taste buds and all that good stuff.”

The wine is a deep, delicious red; it’s not a surprise when it stains Laurent and Damen’s mouth. Laurent is getting tipsy and more than once he zones out of the conversation, in favour of staring at the colour coating Damen’s mouth.

They’re sitting too close. The heat of Damen’s body is intoxicating, more than the wine. When Damen’s hand accidentally falls flat on top of Laurent’s, he doesn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers run gently along Laurent’s.

Damen says, “I’m glad you came, tonight. It – before, it sounded like you didn’t want to.”

  
“I didn’t,” Laurent admits. Why are they whispering? “You changed my mind.”

Damen smiles. It’s soft. “I was waiting all night for you.”

“I…You’re the only reason I came.” And then, before he can stop his mouth Laurent says, “I was thinking of leaving, before you found me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t…You and Auguste are so good at this stuff. Talking to people, getting them to like you.” Laurent clarifies when Damen’s brows furrow. “I’ve never had that. Nobody ever likes me.”

  
“That’s not true,” The intensity in Damen’s voice is heady. “I can’t think of anything less true.”

Laurent swallows his own embarrassment. “It is, though. I didn’t make my first friend until I was seventeen. I... I’m boring and I don’t talk much. I’m aware of how unlikeable I am.”

“Laurent…” The distress scrawled upon Damen’s face is hard to look at. “I wish you wouldn’t talk about yourself like that. You’re the most amazing person I know.”

Laurent can’t seem to control his body; his vision becomes blurry and he tries to blink away his tears, but it’s too late. He looks down at his lap, hastily wiping his face.

“Hey…” Damen shifts even closer. “Don’t cry. It’s okay.”

Laurent shakes his head. He looks up at Damen, tortured. “You’re always so nice to me, Damen.” He peers at him through his lashes. “Sometimes, I wish you weren’t nice to me at all. I feel like I can’t handle it.”

Damen’s body stiffens in shock. His eyes are roaming Laurent’s face, assessing. “I want to keep being nice to you, Laurent. It’s the least you deserve.”

Laurent whimpers. “Don’t say things like that if – if you don’t mean them.”

“I’ve never said anything I don’t mean. Especially when it comes to you.” Damen’s voice is wrecked.

It’s inevitable when Laurent leans forward. Damen is still, quiet as he does so. It’s a bit awkward; the hand that isn’t joined with Damen’s is still holding onto his wine glass. All Laurent can feel is his heartbeat, the steady rhythm of it as he finally closes the distance between them.

Damen’s mouth is warm underneath his. It’s a chaste, sweet kiss. When Laurent pulls back, Damen’s hand reaches out, his palm warm against Laurent’s nape. The second kiss is rougher, open mouthed and wet. It’s exactly the kind of kiss Laurent has spent years yearning for. Damen is relentless; his tongue brushes against Laurent’s and Laurent can’t stop his gasp. It makes Damen kiss him harder, and all Laurent can do is breathe shakily and kiss him back. Laurent is dizzy with want, from the curl of arousal. Damen’s stubble is coarse against the sides of his mouth, but even that is enjoyable. Laurent can’t stop his moans, or the hitches in his breath.

And then it stops. Laurent’s eyes are hooded, half mast, but he quickly opens them when he hears Damen’s “Fuck.”

It’s not a reverent _fuck_ , or even an aroused one. It’s a sharp, panicked one.

“What…?” Laurent starts. His breathing is shallow.

Damen deposits his glass onto the nightstand with a _clink_. It’s loud in the otherwise silence of the room. Then, he buries his face in his hands.

Laurent is still confused. “Damen –”

“Don’t.”

The word is venomous.

Damen’s never spoken to him like that.

Laurent winces, unsure what to do with the rising tension in his chest. He can’t think; it feels like he’s watching himself go through this instead of experiencing it first-hand.

Damen slowly exhales, then rises to his feet. He doesn’t look at Laurent. “We shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”

“No.” This can’t be happening, he thinks. “Damen, please –”

“We should head downstairs. Auguste is probably wondering where you are.” The words are said so callously. Damen’s body is tightly knotted. His fists are clenched. He still won’t look at Laurent.

“I – Damen –”

But Damen isn’t listening to him. He walks past Laurent and out of the room. The door shuts with a gentle click.

*

Laurent can’t sleep. He doesn’t think he can anymore.

He wishes, as he cries into his pillow, that he could call someone: Auguste, his parents, Erasmus, _anyone_ and just explain this horrible, consuming pain in his chest. He wishes he could explain how monumentally he’s fucked everything up.

Everything after had felt so inconsequential. It had taken Laurent a while to stand on shaky legs and make his way back downstairs. He’d thought of looking for Damen, but Damen’s face before he had walked out had stopped him. He’d found Auguste, huddled in the corner with a pretty redhead and told him he was feeling sick, and then had left without answering any of his brother’s questions.

He didn’t even make it to the elevator before he was crying – and he hasn’t been able to stop.

Damen’s face haunts him; the stricken way he’d spoken, as though kissing Laurent was one of the worst things he’d ever done.

He realises now, how stupid, naïve he was to think that Damen could ever reciprocate his feelings – could ever be in love with him, too.

Laurent tosses and turns the entire night. When the sun rises, bathing his room in a warm, orange, he closes his eyes in exhaustion.

*

Auguste doesn’t call him until late into the night, the night after his party. Laurent is in bed, where he’s spent most of the day in between fits of exhaustion and thrumming energy.

Auguste’s voice is hoarse. “You okay? You left so suddenly yesterday.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.” Laurent’s own voice is hoarse, although he doubts it’s for the same reason as Auguste’s. “I just felt so sick all of a sudden.”

“Are you feeling better now?”

“Yes,” lies Laurent.

“That’s good. Make sure to drink some water, you sound like shit.” When Laurent promises he will, Auguste continues, “I was calling to ask you if you wanted to have lunch together tomorrow. It’s my last day in Marlas.”

“Of course.” Laurent hesitates for a split second and says, “Just don’t invite Damen, okay?”

“…Why?” There’s some shuffling and the sound of a door being closed. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” says Laurent quickly. “It’s just…we barely saw each other while you were here. I’d prefer to just hang out with you on your last day.” It’s not technically a lie – even if last night never happened, Laurent would have made the same request.

Auguste’s voice through the speakers is unquestionably tender. “Alright.”

*

The restaurant Auguste picks for their lunch meeting is in a newly developed suburb in Marlas; it’s a fresh, eco-friendly vegan place with murals drawn on the wall. It’s the kind of place Laurent sees on Instagram all the time. After a while, all these places seem to merge together.

Laurent is early; he hadn’t been able to sleep for the second night in a row so this morning he’d spent an unwarranted amount of time pressing cold towels against the swelling of his eyes until he resembled a normal human being once again.

Currently, he’s seated in a large booth by himself, waiting for Auguste’s arrival. Outside, the sun is bright, despite the harsh wind outside. It’s finally starting to feel like winter in Marlas. Laurent wonders what it’s like in Arles; it usually doesn’t snow this early in the year, but he has a feeling by the time he goes back during winter break he’ll be greeted with it.

Laurent is facing the door, so he has a clear view when Auguste enters the restaurant, twenty minutes later than the time they agreed upon, with his hair tied in a half-assed bun, the collar of his jacket pulled up high. Laurent throws him a smile and wave. His smile drops when he sees Damen; his pace is much more sluggish than Auguste’s and his hands are shoved into his coat pockets, head down.

Laurent carefully rearranges his features to hide his surprise and anxiousness.

Auguste lumbers over and hugs him. “I know what you said,” he says quietly into Laurent’s ear. “But he really wanted to come, okay?”

Laurent does not glance at Damen. He just nods and offers Auguste a small smile. _It’s fine,_ he tries to say, but it isn’t. It’s barely been two days. Laurent doesn’t want to see Damen at all right now. If Auguste notices how frigid the air has suddenly become, he doesn’t comment on it.

Damen is trying to catch his eye; Laurent doesn’t give him the benefit. He slides into the booth, and everyone follows suit.

Auguste, thankfully, takes the seat directly across him. Damen is a large, unwanted presence in Laurent’s peripheral.

Now that Damen is here, Laurent is anxious to get this outing over and done with. And he hates to even think that, because this will be the last time in a while before he can see his brother again. He wants this day to be a good one, but Damen’s presence has undoubtedly soured Laurent’s attitude.

He can’t believe Damen would actually show up here, like this – especially with the way he left the other night.

“You’re quieter than usual,” Auguste says eventually, once his anecdote is met with strained silence.

“I was up all night, uh, finishing my assessment,” Laurent mumbles. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to be rude.”

“You never are,” Auguste says, but his eyes remain tight. The expression on his face is pinched; it’s the look he used to get whenever Laurent came back from school, tired and sad.

It’s always been a look Laurent has hated; back then, it used to twist his insides with guilt. It’s good to know it still has the same effect.

Damen is uncharacteristically quiet too. All he’s been doing is playing with his black bean curry and offering one worded quips in response to Auguste’s questions. Why did he even come?

Laurent decides not to let Damen ruin this day for him. He wants to have a good, last day with his brother – and a part of him is scared because Auguste seems to finally notice the uneasiness between them. Laurent has never lied to his brother – not until recently, that is – and never about things that matter. If Auguste asks what’s wrong, Laurent won’t know what to say. He doubts Damen will either.

Laurent’s love for Auguste trumps his current awkwardness with Damen. So, he visibly reins himself in, and focuses on Auguste for the entire meal.

It mostly works; Laurent is still aware of Damen’s brooding – and by extension, so does Auguste. Despite that, lunch is fine.

In fact, it’s so fine Laurent eventually does manage to relax. This turns out to be a mistake; as their plates are cleared from the table, Auguste announces he has to use the bathroom and Laurent’s heart rate accelerates to a dangerous rate at the thought of being left alone with Damen. He makes a move to get up too, but then Damen is sliding across the booth to seat himself in front of Laurent.

“Laurent.” Damen’s voice is careful. It’s raw from a lack of use.

Laurent clenches his fists and places them in his lap. He meets Damen’s eyes for the first time today. Damen’s hair is messy, his curls unmanaged, and there are dark circles under his eyes. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days either. Laurent hates that seeing Damen like this makes him feel terrible. He wonders what Damen sees.

“Laurent,” Damen tries again, when Laurent doesn’t respond. “Is it – can we talk?”

“We’re talking right now.” He’s aware of how cold and detached he sounds.

Damen grimaces; his mouth purses, then sets in a tight line. His words, when they come out are hurried, as though he’s scared Laurent will leave him mid-sentence.

“Look – I. I just wanted to say I’m sorry. It was wrong of me to leave you like that, the other night. And I shouldn’t have – shouldn’t have spoken to you like that either.”

Laurent isn’t sure what to say. He keeps himself still and quiet.

Damen continues, “I fucked up. I was – so drunk, and the entire thing was a mistake. I shouldn’t have kissed –” The word is strangled, knotted in the back of Damen’s throat, “you when you were so upset. I – it wasn’t my intention to take advantage of you like that or –”

“You didn’t,” Laurent interrupts. His ears are ringing. “You didn’t take advantage of me. I – I wanted it.”

Damen’s eyes close. He looks pained. “Laurent. We can’t do something like that ever again. Do you understand?”

Laurent can’t look at him anymore; instead, he averts his eyes to the tabletop. He nods once, a small movement of his head.

“I’m sorry too,” he manages quietly. With rising horror, he realises he’s crying _again_. He wishes he could stop it. It feels like this is all he’s been doing lately. He wipes his face with harsh strokes, trying to clear his head.

“Hey…” Damen speaks to him like he’s a spooked wild animal, soft and reassuring. “You have nothing to be sorry for okay?”

There’s an awkward, tense silence. Laurent keeps his head down, inaudibly sniffing while Damen fidgets across him.

Then Damen says, unsure, “We – we’re okay right?” There’s a cloying anxiety in his tone, expression.

The question makes Laurent pause. When he looks back at Damen, whatever expression is sprawled across his face must be clear because Damen retracts. His entire body stiffens, and his palms, which had been lying flat on the tabletop, slowly retreat in surrender.

“Ah,” he says. His eyes are melancholic; his mouth turns down at the corners. Damen averts his eyes, abashed. “That’s – fine. You’re allowed to be mad at me for as long as you want, Laurent.”

What is Laurent supposed to say to that? He’s not _mad;_ he doubts he could ever be truly mad at Damen. He’s _heartbroken_ – but he can’t say that. If he did tell Damen that, Damen would be infuriatingly understanding. He’d kill Laurent with his kindness.

Auguste heads toward their table again, saving Laurent from having to respond.

This time, it’s impossible to ignore the obvious discomfort in the small space they’re all squashed in. Auguste’s gaze flings from Damen to Laurent slowly, like he’s watching an intense tennis match. Laurent just hopes the fact that he’s been crying isn’t made clear.

“Everything alright?” Auguste asks, brows almost meeting in the centre. He directs this question to Laurent.

Damen, however, beats him to it. “Actually, my head is killing me. I think I’m going to have to head back.”

Auguste’s suspicion disappears; now he only appears concerned for his friend. “You sure? I thought you wanted to go to that chocolate bar place?”

(Laurent had mentioned _Cheeky Chocolate_ to Damen over text just last week. He winces at the reminder).

Damen looks similarly disturbed. He rushes to stand up, shrugging his coat back on. “No. I – Maybe another day, when you’re back. I’m really not feeling well.”

Auguste says, “Yeah, alright. I’ll see you back at the apartment.”

Damen nods, waves goodbye. He offers Laurent a wobbly smile that isn’t returned.

They watch in silence as Damen leaves and then Auguste turns back to him. “Believe it or not, but I’m not stupid.”

Laurent blinks in surprise. “I know that,” he says slowly.

“Did you two have a fight?” Auguste presses. “You didn’t even want him to come over today, and both of you were so fucking cold with each other. Well?”

Laurent wipes his palms on his jeans, thinking. He settles on a half lie. “We had a…disagreement at the party. That’s all.”

“About what?” Auguste leans forward. “Do I need to beat his ass?”

Laurent lets out a startled laugh against his will; something about Auguste taking on Damen physically is unintentionally funny. At least it has Auguste relaxing a fraction.

“No,” Laurent promises. “We – it was stupid. Just – you know. We were both short with each other.”

For a moment, Laurent is worried Auguste won’t let it drop; he can see the mental struggle Auguste goes through. He’s deciding whether a more thorough confrontation is needed or whether he should just let it go.

Auguste lets it go. He sighs and leans back against his seat. “Okay. Alright. Damen is a stubborn bitch. I know how he gets.”

“Yes,” is all Laurent can say.

*

The final weeks of the semester are gruelling. Laurent is stressed almost constantly; even when he’s tucked in a corner of the library, diligently going over his notes, he feels like he’s behind. He spends practically all his time revising, studying, editing his novella for his creative writing lab and writing essay after essay. For a while, the only people he sees are the members of his study group, Aimeric and his professors.

When he begins ignoring Damen, it’s not intentional, at first. A few days after Auguste leaves, Damen messages him a: _Hey, the happy prince ballet is on at the opal centre. I can get tickets for you and your friends? Let me know._

Laurent’s response is a simple. _No thanks. Busy._

Over the next few days, Damen’s messages followed a similar vein: he’d ask Laurent if he wanted to go here, or eat there, or go see something here. Laurent always responded no, or sorry, or I can’t. Eventually, Damen stopped trying.

Laurent refuses to feel guilty over that; he really is busy. And he needs time – if he’s going to get over Damen. He can’t undo four years of being in love if Damen keeps being…well, Damen.

When Laurent’s final exam is over, Aimeric meets him at the food court and they take a moment to sit there, exhausted, as they try to forget the last couple of weeks.

Damen offers him a jet to take back to Arles, but Laurent says no in favour of booking a flight with Aimeric.

“I’ll invite you over soon,” Aimeric keeps promising – although he seems hesitant. Laurent understands; from months of accidentally eavesdropping on his phone conversations, he’s gathered that Aimeric doesn’t have the best home life.

“You’re coming to mine first,” Laurent says and Aimeric flings a shy, grateful smile in his direction.

Hennike hugs him for almost five minutes straight as soon as Laurent’s foot steps over the threshold. It’s only when Laurent reminds her that breathing is a necessity does she let go. Aleron peers at him with a frown and tells him he’s too thin, which makes Hennike rush to the kitchen to prepare a mammoth amount of food.

Laurent was also right about the weather. Arles is covered in a thin layer of white; Aleron says there hasn’t been a snowstorm yet, but it’s been snowing almost every day.

Laurent intends his winter break to be as relaxing and lazy as possible. He doesn’t want to do anything but eat, sleep and watch Netflix for three weeks.

It isn’t until Auguste’s thirty first birthday approaches that Laurent suddenly remembers Auguste’s plans to spend a week at Isthima, the island off the coast of Ios, which the Vallis’ owned. It’s still warm there, even at this time of year. Laurent is convinced Akielos in general has never had a winter. Auguste had asked him months ago to attend and Laurent had eagerly agreed to the idea of spending a whole week with Damen in nothing but swim shorts; now, the thought makes his insides twist.

“Maybe I should just stay home,” Laurent tells Auguste the night before. “Have fun with your friends. Why do you even need me there?”

“Oi,” says Auguste. “It’s my birthday; therefore, I make the rules. And one of those rules is: ‘Laurent must be in attendance’”.

“Yeah, but…won’t you have more fun if it’s just you and your friends?”

“Laurent,” Auguste’s sigh is chastising. “What is this really about? Are you still mad at Damen?”

“No!” says Laurent quickly – too quickly. He hastens his tone, “I’m kind of liking the cold right now?”

“It’s just one week. Come on. Please?”

Laurent agrees; it’s a reluctant noise. Auguste must notice, although he doesn’t say anything.

Laurent spends the rest of the evening in fits of worry. At one point, he even thinks of asking Aleron to cover for him and convince Auguste he’s suddenly been infected with a deadly disease.

Right before he falls asleep, his phone lights up with a message. With a sinking feeling, Laurent realises it’s from Damen. It’s short and to the point.

_I can’t wait to see you_

Laurent doesn’t know how to respond. So he doesn’t.

*

The flight to Isthima is a long one; Auguste and Laurent spend it mostly sleeping in Damen’s private jet. By the time they land, Laurent is groggy and disorientated.

Everything on this island has been built for or by the Vallis’. It’s jarring to see the reality of their wealth, and all Laurent can think of is Damen’s earnest _money isn’t an issue for me_.

Isthima is like a painter’s palette; everything is excessively colourful and bright. The surrounding sea is a clear, deep blue and the sand is vibrant and hot beneath Laurent’s sandals. Auguste hasn’t stopped smiling since they stepped off the plane and it makes Laurent happy to see his brother like this. _I can do this_ , Laurent thinks. _I can do this for Auguste._

Laurent and Auguste are the first of Auguste’s friends to arrive. It’s early on a Friday morning, and Laurent knows Damen will be arriving in the afternoon, followed by Auguste’s other uni friends at night.

The hotel they check in at has the signature Vallis aesthetic attached to it; it’s all wide, sweeping columns and stretches of glossy white. Auguste has booked six rooms in total, all on the same floor.

Laurent’s room is the farthest from everyone’s; he’s sure Auguste did this intentionally to make Laurent feel more comfortable. It’s huge; the ceiling is a high, arching dome and the balcony overlooks the Ellosean sea. Laurent can see how the waves take form before they hit the shore of the beach and it’s calming. He’s feeling more and more relaxed.

Laurent and Auguste decide to spend the morning and early afternoon by the seaside; the heat isn’t as unbearable as it was in Ios, all those years ago. It’s pleasant, as it dances across the skin of Laurent’s arms and legs.

Damen is already waiting in the hotel hobby when they decide to come back, lethargic and sated.

Laurent’s breath hitches a little in surprise. Auguste throws him a strange look, before making his way to Damen. Laurent watches them hug, his heart flipping in his chest.

Damen’s smile is bright. The shorts he’s wearing are tight and his shirt is big and billowy in the wind. It’s unfair how gorgeous he is; Laurent half wishes Damen would turn into an unattractive goblin just to make it easier on him. Then, Damen is turning to him. His eyes are guarded as they assess Laurent. He doesn’t move forward and that pains Laurent – before, Damen would stride towards him with determination and pull him into a hug.

Laurent isn’t sure what his facial expression is saying, but it sobers the smile on Damen’s face. “Hello, Laurent,” he says, oddly formal.

“Hi,” Laurent says. His voice cracks on the word and he winces.

Auguste, for the first time since their arrival, looks put out at their interaction. Laurent doesn’t want his brother to feel anything but euphoria this entire weekend, so he makes sure his smile is more concrete and says, “How was your flight?”

“It was good,” says Damen. His eyes don’t leave Laurent’s face. “How was yours?”

“Good,” says Laurent.

“That’s good.”

“Yes.”

“Not that this isn’t a _fascinating_ conversation,” Auguste suddenly says, making them both start, “but maybe we should all head up upstairs to freshen up?” The last part is said pointedly to Damen, who flushes and ducks his head.

As Damen walks over to the elevators, Auguste grabs Laurent’s arm and hauls him to the water fountain near the reception desk.

“You’re both still being weird,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” Laurent says, miserable and contrite, “maybe I should go home? I don’t want to ruin your plans or –”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Auguste sighs. He rubs a palm over his face. “Just – it’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’ll – I’ll try harder, it’s…” Laurent vows and only stops talking when he catches the commiseration in Auguste’s gaze.

“Let’s just go upstairs,” Auguste says into the shrivelled air.

Laurent understands the dismissal for what it is.

*

Afterwards, it takes Laurent a while to regroup himself. He even cries a little – but it ends up making him feel better, so he doesn’t berate himself for getting so emotional.

He hears Auguste’s friends arrive down the hall one by one; all of them are loud, flamboyant as they announce their presence. Auguste’s laughter carries as well. Whatever he says has everyone cheering – and then they shuffle into his room for what Laurent assumes is a lot of drinking.

This is confirmed by Auguste’s text sometime later: _pre drinks @ mine_

_dinner is @ 9 btw don’t forget_

Laurent ignores the text about drinking and responds with a _yes i know_ about the dinner one.

The view from his window is stunning as night falls; he doesn’t have a direct view of the sunset, but the sky explodes in colour: warm oranges, pinks and reds. Laurent keeps his elbows pressed to the marble of the balcony railing, serenely watching, until the sky turns dark and clear once more. Then, he makes his way back inside his room to get ready.

Dinner is a frightening prospect for Laurent – and not just for the obvious reasons. It’s daunting to meet new people, and then spend an inordinate amount of time being polite and keeping up with conversations. It’s worse now because he’s clearly the odd one out of the group; he can’t imagine anyone being interested enough to keep pulling him into conversations, despite his apparent awkwardness. Well – besides Damen. It goes without saying that Laurent isn’t expecting that tonight.

Laurent has just managed to pull on his shirt – a thick button-down shirt; now that the sun has set, the temperature has dropped considerably – when there’s a knock on the door followed by Auguste’s: “Laurent!”

Laurent opens the door, unimpressed. “You don’t have to yell.”

“Shit, sorry,” Auguste says. His ears are red, and his eyes are bright. He’s not drunk, but he’s getting there. “We’re leaving in five minutes.”

“Okay,” Laurent says. “Should I meet you all downstairs?”

“Yeah, sure.” Auguste is already heading back towards his room. “There’s a bottle of good, vintage wine in my room if you want some.”

“No, thanks,” Laurent smiles. “I’ll see you later.”

Laurent doesn’t head downstairs until he hears everyone raucously passing by his room. One of them must be wearing the world’s heaviest boots, because his footsteps stomp down the hall in deafening strides. How a group of grown men can still act like pubescent teenagers is beyond him.

Laurent heads downstairs after collecting his courage and making sure his anxiety is mellowed.

Auguste’s friends are all patiently waiting in the lobby. They are still boisterous; Laurent can see the receptionist throwing them annoyed glances every few seconds. It makes him smile.

Auguste grins wide when he spots him. He bounds over and throws his arm over Laurent, ushering him forward so he can be introduced properly to everyone.

Auguste’s smile is sly when Laurent and Berenger shake hands. Berenger is still mind mannered and polite; Laurent remembers himself, earnest and young, trailing behind him like a lovesick puppy. Berenger is also still a terrible dresser. Laurent is sure the beige jacket he’s wearing is the same one from ten years ago. Huet is tall and the owner of those heavy boots. His handshake is so enthusiastic, it almost cramps Laurent hand. He is also intoxicated; he can barely stand still.

But it’s the man to the right of Damen that catches Laurent’s attention. He’s not very tall, but his face is classically handsome: straight nose, dark eyes, stubbled jaw. He’s looking at Laurent with clear interest. Laurent is sure he’s seen him before, somewhere. It takes a while for his brain to process the face and when he does –

“Oh!” Laurent exclaims, too loud; he notices Huet jump slightly from the corner of his eye. “You’re – wow. I’m – This is –”

“He’s usually more articulate than this,” August laughs. It’s a fond sound.

Laurent blushes. He knows, from how hot his face feels, that the colour on his face is spreading across the bridge of his nose as well. It’s rare he ever gets this flushed, but he supposes it’s also rare to meet one of your favourite authors in the flesh.

Torveld Trevisan is an international bestselling phenomenon. His adult fantasy series _Luminous_ is nothing short of brilliant. Laurent has read all five books at least ten times; it’s easily his favourite novels of all time.

To be here, in a hotel in Isthima, and meet him is extraordinary. Laurent is wracked with nerves. But Torveld’s smile is a gracious, warm thing. He extends his hand dutifully, “It’s nice to meet you,” and his fingers press into the skin above Laurent’s thumb. It feels electric, and Laurent can only manage a weak: “You too.”

Auguste, Damen and Laurent fall in line on the walk to the restaurant, with Auguste as a nice buffer between them.

“I can’t believe you never told me you were friends with Tor – Mr Trevisan,” Laurent whispers to Auguste.

Auguste laughs. He doesn’t bother to lower the volume of his voice. “It was a good surprise, right? His manager is friends with my boss, and he showed up at a company party a few months ago. Been talking ever since.”

“Wow,” Laurent shakes his head, awestruck. “What’s he like?”

Auguste gives him a wry smile. “Why don’t you talk to him yourself? He seemed keen to earlier.”

Damen mutters something under his breath, but it’s lost in the sound of the oncoming traffic that drives past them.

Either way, Laurent ignores him. “You still should have told me. I completely embarrassed myself, didn’t I?” He flushes a little self-consciously.

“Oh please,” Auguste ruffles his hair despite Laurent’s outraged protest. “Torveld was flattered, I could tell. Don’t be embarrassed. He’s a great dude.” 

The restaurant they’re eating in tonight is one of Damen’s choosing. It’s a dark, urban place with and open bar, low lights, with a live band playing up on a stage in the far corner. It’s exactly the kind of place Auguste frequents, and Laurent knows he likes it when he beams at Damen as they enter the door.

Laurent tries to take the seat on the corner of the table, so everyone else can be squashed in together. Auguste, however, pulls Laurent next to him, and he finds himself placed between his brother and Torveld, with Damen taking the seat across from him.

Damen’s eyes meet his for a brief second as he sits down, but Laurent quickly retreats his gaze to the view outside.

It’s fortunate Auguste is so outgoing and loud; conversation at the table is rarely directed at Laurent, and whenever it is, it’s easy enough for Laurent to add something inconsequential before everyone is moving on.

As the night wears on, Laurent, fuelled by alcohol and a full stomach, turns to the man next to him, the source of all his intrigue.

“I have a lot of questions to ask you, so be prepared.” Laurent tells Torveld, whose smile turns to teeth.

“I don’t mind,” he says, and it’s so sincere.

“Okay. So. Why does Shamin wait until the final battle to kill his father, and not before, in court? I mean, logically, it would have been easier to do it then, right? Then the battle wouldn’t have happened in the first place.”

Torveld blinks. “Ah,” he says, “so we _are_ going right for it, then.”

“I did warn you,” Laurent says, only slightly apologetic.

Torveld smiles at him; it’s an amused one. “You did, I suppose.” He rearranges his posture carefully. His elbow rests on the top rail of the chair, so his body can face Laurent’s properly. Like this, Laurent can see the deep lines around Torveld’s eyes and mouth. It’s clear he laughs a lot and that thought warms Laurent.

Laurent spends a considerable amount of time during the night enamoured by Torveld. The way he talks is almost exactly how he writes; it’s engaging, authentic and brilliant. Laurent feels like he’s on the edge of his seat – literally and figuratively – whenever Torveld opens his mouth.

Laurent’s process of picking apart Torveld’s brain is interrupted by a favourable intermission – the only kind Laurent would allow at a time like this.

It’s midnight. Auguste is officially thirty-one. One of the polite waiters that had been serving them throughout the night rushes forward, a large cake in her hands. She places it down in front of Auguste and lights the sparklers for him. The shadows cast from the light dance across his face as he blows them out.

Their table erupts in riotous cheers. Auguste, thankful and drunk, keeps asserting that he loves all of them. Then Auguste goes around the table, kissing them all on the cheek – a true sign of his intoxication. Laurent snorts as he watches Auguste lean over the table to kiss Huet, only he misses and kisses his eyelid instead.

The cake is sliced and passed around. It’s a strawberry watermelon cake Auguste loves and raves about all the time; Laurent remembers trying it with him years ago and hating it. Before Laurent can even say _no thanks_ , though, another cake is making its way to the table. It’s a silky chocolate truffle cake, with chocolate shavings pressed into the ganache frosting

It’s placed in front of Laurent. The server, however, addresses everyone. “For those of you who dislike fruit in your dessert.”

Laurent clenches his fists under the table.

*

Auguste is too inebriated to walk back. Huet is also getting there. So, everyone decides to take a car back to the hotel, even though the walk is less than ten minutes.

Laurent keeps his arm steady on Auguste’s as he leads him to the elevator. Damen is the only one that doesn’t follow them. He keeps his hands in the pockets of his slacks and his eyes downcast. Before the elevator door closes, he says hedgingly: “I think I’m gonna go for a walk”, and then turns back around before anyone can say anything in response.

Laurent frowns, unintentionally worried. Damen had been unnervingly quiet the whole dinner and now he won’t even look at any of them. He hopes Damen isn’t behaving this way just so he doesn’t have to stand next to Laurent in the cramped space of the elevator.

Laurent deposits Auguste back to his room safely and makes sure there are at least two water bottles on his nightstand. He does not envy what Auguste is going to go through in the morning.

To his surprise, Torveld is outside his door, waiting for him.

“Hello,” Laurent says, suddenly shy and unsure of what to say.

Torveld flings a smile at him. He’s the only person at the table who didn’t touch his drink. The redness in his eyes is due to exhaustion. “Hey, so. We didn’t really get to finish talking earlier. No – I don’t mean we should finish now,” he says when Laurent’s eyebrows furrow. “Just. Would you want to meet up with me for dinner tomorrow night?”

“Oh!” Laurent says. Out of everything, this is the last thing he expected Torveld to say. “I – yes!” He flushes a little. “Sorry, I mean, yes – that, that sounds nice.”

Torveld smile grows wider. His shoulders droop with apparent relief. “Okay. Great. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Laurent can only nod, excited; when Torveld walks past him, his hands linger on Laurent’s shoulder as he says goodnight.

Back in his room, Laurent is thrumming with a buzzing energy, even after he’s changed his clothes and washed his face. He glances a look at the time on his phone; it’s almost three am. He should be feeling sleepy – especially after all the wine he had over dinner – but his skin is crawling with a strange sort of anticipation.

Throwing back the covers of his bed, he throws on a pair of sneakers and decides to head downstairs. He doesn’t have a clear idea of where he’s going or what he’s going to do. He figures he’ll just walk around the hotel until he feels tired.

Almost ten minutes later, Laurent passes by the huge lounge on the ground floor of the hotel. It’s empty, as expected at this time of night, except for a lone man at the bar.

Laurent debates entering, until he realises the man is Damen. He’s sitting on a bar stool, elbows pressed to the bar top, head bent down and fists clenched into his hair. It’s the ultimate picture of distress and Laurent feels an overwhelming jolt of concern.

Laurent makes his way over to the bar, trepidation in his steps. When his hip rests against the lip of the bar top, Damen doesn’t even move; he doesn’t seem to have realised he’s there.

“Damen,” Laurent calls, voice careful. “Are you okay?”

Slowly, his movements aborted, Damen’s fists uncurl from his hair to rest on the wood of the bar top. Then, he slowly lifts his head, gaze solemn. His eyes are rimmed with red, wet, and it shocks Laurent more than anything to realise Damen is _crying_.

“Hey…” Laurent is unconfident over what to do. He’s never seen Damen looking so…wrecked. He lets his fingertips rest against Damen’s shoulder. When Damen doesn’t tense up, or push him away, Laurent glides his hands around his broad shoulders and shuffles closer. Seated like this, Damen’s head presses against Laurent’s chest. Laurent squeezes him tightly as Damen’s arm come around to wrap around him as well.

Damen shudders against him. The sound lodges a lump in Laurent’s throat.

“Damen, what’s wrong?” Laurent asks. It comes out in a small whisper. He wonders what Damen could be so upset about. Kastor? His parents? The business?

Damen’s response is muffled. Laurent gently eases back, running soothing hands through Damen’s hair when Damen tilts his face up to meet his. His cheeks are wet.

“I fucked up,” Damen rasps. His words are slurred and he’s speaking Akielon.

“What?” Laurent’s own Akielon is clunky.

“Everything,” Damen breathes. “I fucked up everything between us.”

Laurent’s heart clenches. “Damen…” He tries to speak against the tightness of his throat. “That’s not true.”

“Yes, it is.” Damen’s voice, face is all anguished. He peers at Laurent with distress. “You won’t even look at me anymore.”

The emotion in his voice makes Laurent close his eyes. With great effort, he opens them. “I’m sorry.”

Damen shakes his head. “No – you. I deserve it. It’s all my fault.”

“Stop it.” Laurent says. Except he doesn’t know what else to say besides: “That’s not true.”, again and again.

Damen eventually does calm down. It comes in slow waves: his body stops shaking, and he seems more aware of the fact that they’re in public. He doesn’t want to talk anymore, he tells Laurent. He wants to go to sleep.

When Damen can stand, Laurent helps him get back to his room. It takes too long: Damen is much larger and heavier. Laurent struggles to balance his weight against the slow drag of his own footsteps.

Damen’s room looks pretty much identical to Laurent’s, only the view of the sea is better. He guides Damen to the edge of his bed and seats him down.

Damen is too inebriated to do much more than stare blankly over Laurent’s shoulder, so Laurent decides to carefully prepare him for bed. He starts by taking off Damen’s shoes and socks for him, then his blazer, folding it and placing it on the armchair by the bed. He debates taking off Damen’s shirt and slacks for him but decides against it. Instead, Laurent brings him a bottle of water and watches as Damen drinks it dutifully.

Gently pushing down at Damen’s shoulders, Laurent manages to get him to lay down on the bed. Laurent untucks the blankets, then lays it over Damen. Damen is watching him the entire time.

“I miss you,” Damen says quietly. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Laurent pushes back Damen’s hair from his forehead. “You won’t, Damen. I promise. Go to sleep now, okay? We can talk in the morning.”

Damen nods, weary. His eyes are still tracking Laurent, even as he moves across the room, towards the door. But when Laurent looks back before closing the door, Damen’s eyes are closed, his breathing even.

Laurent shuts the door with a gentle click. Then, he presses his back against it, thinking.

*

Unsurprisingly, nobody manages to wake up before noon the next day.

Laurent wakes up to sunlight filtering through the curtains and the lapping of waves. He’s never been a beach person, but lying in bed, cocooned in the softest cotton, he thinks he wouldn’t mind living near one.

The breakfast buffet is closed, but the lunch one has just started by the time Laurent freshens up. Auguste and Berenger are seated at a table in the far corner of the dining hall, where the sun is less obtrusive.

Auguste’s hair is stringy and dishevelled and he’s wearing large sunglasses. His expression is morose. Laurent bursts out into laughter when he sees him, and he can’t stop for a while.

“You’re terrible,” Auguste groans. “Literally the worst brother in the world.”

Laurent laughs again. Even Berenger, for all his stoicism, seems amused. “At least you had fun.”

Auguste groans again and buries his face into his arms.

The dining hall fills with more patrons. Laurent doesn’t get up to get food, even when Auguste and Berenger get up to do so. Instead, Laurent keeps his eyes trained on the door. He’s hoping Damen will be here soon.

Auguste and Berenger come back to the table, plates filled with staggering amount of bread and pasta. They’ve only just dug in, when Damen walks in. Laurent stands up too quickly; Auguste throws him a concerned look. “What…?”

“Nothing,” says Laurent. “I’ll see you guys later.”

Damen is heading over to the buffet table, his steps slow on the tiled floor. His curls are matted, but he’s made an obvious attempt at fixing them; there’s gel shining in it. He’s even managed to put together a decent outfit.

Laurent stops him with a gentle hand on his arm.

Damen looks down in surprise. Then, his body tightens and his expression changes into something more daunted.

“Hey,” Laurent makes sure to keep his tone light, friendly. “How are you feeling?”

“Good,” Damen’s voice is scratchy, unused. He clears his throat and tries again. “Better, I mean.”

“I’m glad,” says Laurent. He squeezes Damen’s arm, once, and lets go. “Do you want to go get lunch together?”

Damen’s eyes widen in shock. There are dark rings under his eyes.

“I’ve had a look over the buffet table; nothing seems particularly good.” Laurent continues. “I thought we could go out and get something. Just the two of us.”

Laurent isn’t sure what Damen is calculating in his head. His eyes travel along Laurent’s face, slow and deliberate. Then, he nods, equally slow.

Laurent smiles. He’s relieved. “Okay. Then let’s….” He vaguely gestures to the door.

The sun is warm across Laurent’s face as they make their way down the road. Damen tells him there’s a good brunch place there, famous for its pancakes.

Laurent nods. “Whatever you want.”

“No,” Damen says, more forcefully than he probably means to. “Whatever _you_ want.”

Laurent bites his lip. “Pancakes sounds wonderful.”

The brunch place is surprisingly small; it’s filled with cramped, colourful seats and paintings hung on the wall in an eclectic fashion.

It seems full, but the man behind the register takes one surprised look at Damen and quickly ushers them to a long table, where the seats are next to each other, rather than across. At least it’s right underneath the window.

Damen keeps grimacing. Laurent leans in close, places a hand on his thigh. He doesn’t miss the way Damen tenses. “Is it too noisy in here for you?”

Damen shakes his head. “No…I’m fine.”

Laurent and Damen both order the souffle pancakes. The silence between them while they wait for their orders isn’t exactly comfortable. Damen keeps shooting him strained glances every so often. He’s very unsubtle about it as well.

It isn’t until their food arrives, and Laurent has taken a few bites (it’s incredibly delicious and he makes the decision to come back here every morning until they leave), that he decides to speak.

  
“Do you remember much of last night?” Laurent begins, hesitant.

Damen sets down his knife and fork. Unlike Laurent, his pancakes are barely touched. His eyes close in dismay. “Parts of it.”

“You said you missed me.”

Damen swallows. “I’m sorry. That was inappropriate. I don’t you to feel like –”

“I miss you too.”

Damen’s eyes shoot open. Somehow, he looks even more anguished. “Please, Laurent. Don’t toy with me like this.”

“I’m not.” Laurent tries to sound earnest, but his voice ends up shaking. “I miss you, Damen. So much. And I – I shouldn’t have ignored you or –”

“No,” Damen cuts in, gentle. “I told you. You’re allowed to take as much time as you need.” His mouth purses. “I…It wasn’t my intention to guilt you last night or…”

“I know,” says Laurent quietly. “You didn’t. I – a while ago you asked me whether or not we’re okay.” Laurent meets his eyes. “I just want you to know that we are.”

It’s like the string keeping Damen upright has been cut; he practically sags against the tabletop. His relief is palpable. It dances across his face, his eyes. When Damen smiles at him, Laurent realises, for the first time, the extent of how much he has missed him. If Damen looks at him like this for the rest of his life, he won’t need anything else.

Damen says, “Can I hug you?”

Laurent nods, inexplicably bashful.

Damen’s hug is tight and warm. It makes Laurent’s head spin.

Before, Laurent used to think that Damen not loving him back was the worst thing in the world. Now he knows that that’s not true; not having Damen at all is infinitely times worse. And hurting Damen because of his own pain is even worse than that.

Laurent has never been particularly selfless. Now, with his head resting against the crook of Damen’s shoulder, he decides for Damen, he can be.

*

The days in Isthima are long; the sun stays out in the sky past the point of necessity. And despite being winter it’s still so _warm._ It’s the kind of weather that makes the day feel wasted unless it’s spent outside. At least, this is the reasoning Damen uses to convince Laurent to spend the rest of the afternoon lazing around at the beach after brunch.

The rest of Auguste’s friends join them too – except for Torveld who is in a Skype meeting with his agent to discuss some things regarding his next book. (The fact that he’s writing another book makes Laurent giddy with anticipation).

Laurent and Damen are the only ones not swimming; Laurent doesn’t know how to, and the water is freezing. This isn’t a problem for Auguste, Huet or Berenger; they’ve been neck deep in the rolling waves for the past hour.

Instead, Laurent and Damen are seated at the rock pools, the water gently lapping at their feet. Damen’s pose is epitome of relaxed; his hands are behind him, pressed against the rock and his ankles are crossed together as he kicks at the water. For the first time in weeks, he looks genuinely happy and it softens Laurent to realise he’s the same way.

It’s almost how his relationship with Auguste changed all those years ago; it needed to get worse before it could be better. Now, Damen is uncontained, carefree. Laurent is too.

“I need to teach you how to swim before we leave,” Damen is saying. “You can’t spend the rest of your life going to the beach and doing nothing but _this_.” To make his point, Damen kicks the water again.

Laurent smiles. “I don’t mind doing _this_.” He kicks at the water. “Besides, no one said you had to sit here with me. If you’d rather freeze your cock off, be my guest.”

Damen’s eyes widen a little at the word _cock_. Laurent almost laughs; Ios is renowned for its nude beaches and yet Damen is acting as though they’re schoolboys who’ve said a bad word in the vicinity of a teacher.

“It’s still an important life skill,” Damen continues after a moment. “And I’m still going to teach you. I mean, what happens if you’re on a cruise ship and you suddenly go overboard?”

Laurent laughs. He can’t believe Damen’s scenarios about drowning begin with a _cruise ship_. “You’re right,” he concedes. “After all, my primary mode of transport is a cruise ship. It’s probably bound to happen any day now.”

“Ha ha.” Damen rolls his eyes. He moves the palm laying on the rock to the small of Laurent’s back. “I’m serious. Let me teach you.”

Laurent ignores him, still playing with the water. He yelps when Damen wraps his arm around his hip properly and pulls him flush against him.

“What are you doing?” He’s only slightly breathless.

Damen leans in closer. “Let. Me. Teach. You.” Each word is punctuated with a squeeze of his hips.

It’s not supposed to be erotic. Laurent is sure Damen’s touch is meant to be ticklish, except it isn’t. All it does is send a warm flush through Laurent’s body, his mouth dropping open on a small gasp.

He’s paused too long, Laurent realises. “I –”

“Well, you two look _very_ cosy,” Auguste’s voice drawls behind them.

Damen’s hands immediately leave Laurent’s body. He also jumps about a foot away from him; it makes Laurent comprehend how close they really were.

Auguste takes a seat next to Damen. His hair has come out of its bun; it now hangs wet and plastered in long, golden strips. The slice of his smile and the way his eyebrows keep rising suggests amusement, rather than beratement.

Damen clears his throat. “I’m offering Laurent swimming lessons.”

“More like bullying me,” Laurent mutters.

Auguste laughs. “Good luck, man. I’m pretty sure dad paid for lessons until he was seven and he still ended up learning nothing.”

“Shut up!” Laurent snaps, and Damen laughs.

“It’s alright, I don’t mind a challenge.” Damen winks at him. _Winks._

Laurent hates him.

Auguste checks his watch. It’s one of those huge, ugly waterproof ones that looks like it came straight out of a spy movie. “We should head back soon. It’s almost time to go.”

Ah, yes. Laurent remembers now: Auguste’s plan to go to a club and “get absolutely shitfaced”. His brother could be so articulate at times.

“Yeah, let’s go,” Damen says.

“Uh, actually. I don’t think I can go to _Ivy_ with you guys.” Laurent chimes.

“Why not?” Auguste frowns.

Despite himself, Laurent can feel his face colouring. “I – well, it’s just that Torveld asked me to dinner tonight.”

Damen stills. “ _Torveld_.”

“Yes.” Laurent keeps his eyes on Auguste. “Is that okay with you?”

Auguste’s eyes flicker to Damen’s face for a few beats. It strains his smile. “You don’t need my permission to skip out, Laurent.”

“I know. But if you want me to go with you guys, I will.”

Auguste isn’t even looking at him; his eyes keep darting to Damen. Whatever conversation they’re having is clearly telepathic; Laurent can’t read either of their expressions.

Finally, Auguste says, “Of course you can go. Have fun, alright?”

“Yeah, I will. Definitely.”

On their way back to the hotel, Damen doesn’t say a single word.

*

The restaurant Torveld takes him to is nestled into an old warehouse. It’s rustic and haphazard in its design; it’s the kind of place Damen would call pretentious. It’s anything but that, though. The entire atmosphere is so relaxed and friendly, Laurent feels like he doesn’t have to be on guard.

The man sitting across him has something to do with that, too. Torveld is so genuine in everything he does; it’s refreshing to see. And he’s a great conversationalist. It because of the storyteller in him, Laurent knows, but it doesn’t prevent him from hanging onto every word Torveld says.

Embarrassingly enough, Laurent knows quite a bit of Torveld’s personal life – at least his life right before he became a prolific author – and he accidentally lets it slip. Torveld is more flattered than wary, though, so Laurent takes it as a good sign.

A few hours later, Laurent has eaten more curly fries and steak than he ever thought he was capable of. They’re seated in the bar now, because it’s the only part of the restaurant still open. Laurent checks his watch – his and Damen’s watch – and realises it’s nearing midnight.

“We should probably head back,” Laurent suggests.

Torveld takes a long sip of his beer and raises his eyebrows. “You’re not Cinderella, are you? Besides, there’s another place I wanted to show you. If you wanted.”

Laurent hesitates. It’s not that he doesn’t want to. It’s just exhausting for him, mentally, to be so invested in upkeeping conversation for such a long period of time.

Still, he’s also aware of how rare this opportunity is. So, he nods yes, and Torveld beams.

The next place they end up at is an idyllic twenty-four-hour café bookstore that’s washed in yellow lighting. Laurent remembers looking up this place months ago, when the excitement for the Isthima trip had been at its peak.

Laurent tries not to squash the brief moment of discontent he feels; he had initially wanted to come here with Damen.

 _Insomniac_ is aptly named, and despite the late hours, there’s more than a decent amount of people loitering near the shelves. The smell of coffee is heady; Laurent has to stop himself from visibly inhaling.

Torveld seats himself at a high bench tabletop and Laurent follows, taking the seat next to him. Behind them, the shelves are filled with the staff picks of the month. _Luminous_ is one of them, spotlighted by someone named Alena, who writes it’s “game changing”. Laurent can affirm it is.

“Does it still make you happy when you see stuff like that?” Laurent asks, gesturing to the display.

Torveld nods, “It always will.”

Torveld buys them inexpensive coffee from upstairs. Damen would probably never drink this stuff Laurent muses, as he takes a sip of his mocha.

“I’m gonna be up all night,” Laurent laughs. “That was honestly really strong.”

Torveld smiles. “I get all my writing done late into the night, so I’m used to drinking half my weight in coffee.”

Laurent has never been particularly interested in a writer’s process; it’s possibly because he spends so much time in university analysing that kind of thing, but Torveld makes it sound so interesting.

It’s a surprise later, when as their conversation lulls, Torveld leans in closer. His smile is affable, almost lazy. It only serves to highlight the handsomeness of his face.

“I’ve never met anyone like you,” he says, and Laurent blinks. “You know, the first time I saw you, I couldn’t look away.”

“Oh,” Laurent says quietly. The back of his neck prickles with warmth. He can’t say this…confession is a surprise. Laurent thinks on some instinctive level he could tell Torveld may have felt attraction towards him. It’s the way he’s been looking at Laurent all night, unabashed and lingering.

And Laurent’s own behaviour has stemmed from his own adoration – although not in the same way as Torveld’s.

Torveld is still leaning closer. Their knees bump against each other. Laurent tampers his initial response to pull away.

Torveld’s hand rests against his nape. His palm is warm, secure. It grounds Laurent in his seat. “Is this okay?” he asks, voice low.

Laurent nods.

Torveld’s mouth tastes like coffee. His lips are slightly chapped and his beard his rough on Laurent’s chin. His other hand rests on Laurent’s hip, gripping and twisting his shirt. Almost everything about this kiss is reminding Laurent of Damen. He remembers how Damen’s palm had settled on his nape, then the crook on his shoulder. He remembers how pink his cheeks had looked after, because of Damen’s stubble.

When Laurent realises he’s spent too long thinking of a different man to the one he’s kissing, he pulls away. He feels guilty, overwhelmed. He keeps his eyes on the ground.

Deflated and embarrassed, Laurent says, “I’m sorry.”

“That’s alright,” Torveld’s smile is gracious, if a little disappointed. “I’m not usually so forward.”

“I think you’re great, really,” Laurent begins to say, but Torveld hushes him gently.

“You don’t have to justify yourself, Laurent.”

The exhaustion hits Laurent then. They’ve been here for hours, and Laurent didn’t get much sleep the night before either. And despite the convivial atmosphere, his palms are clammy.

His anxiousness must be apparent enough. Torveld offers another gentle smile.

“Maybe it’s time to head back now.” The suggestion is casual. “I’ll call a car.”

“Thank you.”

Laurent expects a quiet, sombre ride back to the hotel. Torveld, however, doesn’t let the conversation fizzle and he seems just as enthusiastic to talk to Laurent post kiss.

By the time they reach the hotel, Laurent is back to being relaxed once again.

It’s a shock to see Damen sitting on an oversized armchair in the lobby, typing on his laptop.

Laurent slows down when he sees him. Damen’s eyebrows are furrowed, but his eyes aren’t moving or reading the screen. His entire body is locked in one position, like a statue.

Laurent hovers. He chances a glance at Torveld, who takes his cue.

“I’ll see you later, Laurent.”

“Yes,” Laurent says. “Thank you for tonight…I had a lot of fun.”

Torveld winks, hands in his pockets as he strides towards the elevators.

Laurent makes his way to Damen. “Hey,” he says, smiling. “What are you doing out here so late?”

Damen doesn’t seem surprised by his presence. There’s a half empty bottle of scotch next to him, on the small side table.

“Working,” says Damen. His eyes are still on the laptop screen, unmoving. His jaw is clenched. “Huet crashed in my room and he snores. I needed some quiet.”

“Oh. So I take it you all had fun?”

“Mostly,” says Damen. Then, he shuts his laptop and peers up at him. “Where were you?”

Laurent blinks. “I – dinner.”

“It’s three in the fucking morning, Laurent.”

Damen’s tone is hard, his eyes steely.

The wave of arousal hits Laurent out of nowhere. He has to bite down on his lip, hard, to keep from whimpering.

“I – we…It got late.”

Damen stands up. His expression is thunderous. Being this close, Laurent has to crane his neck to meet his eyes, and the width of Damen’s body is much more apparent. Damen is angry, but all Laurent can think is, _this is what I want him to look like when he fucks me_.

His breathing grows more laborious. His head is spinning.

Damen takes a step closer. This time, Laurent can’t stop his whimper.

“ _What_ were you doing?” Damen asks. His eyes fall on Laurent’s shirt, to the place where Torveld grabbed him. It’s rumpled in an unnatural fashion.

He knows Damen makes the connection. When their eyes meet again, Damen _growls._

Laurent is sure he looks as turned on as he feels. He must look half crazed, desperate. He _wants._

Laurent’s body sways closer. His cheeks are flushed. “Damen –”

Damen abruptly pulls back. He turns back to the armchair. Tucking the laptop underneath his arm, he picks up his bottle of scotch.

“I have a conference call early in the morning. I need to get to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He’s not even looking at Laurent as he says it. He misses Laurent’s nod and walks off, back to the elevators.

Laurent watches him go with wide eyes, his cock hard in his pants.

*

Laurent falls into one of the deepest sleeps he’s had in a while. He doesn’t even remember falling asleep; he swears his eyes were open one moment then closed the next.

So, it’s startling when there’s loud, egregious knocking on his door in the morning. It’s so loud it instantly jolts Laurent awake; he lifts his head from the pillow he smashed his face in and blinks, bleary eyed at the door.

“What…?” he mutters, but the knocking continues. He throws back his blankets, with a muttered, “fuck’s sake,” underneath his breath.

Stopping to peer at the mirror near the door, he rubs at his eyes and tries to look semi presentable.

He expects an enthusiastic member of staff; someone in charge of housekeeping or room service. Instead, it’s Damen, holding a huge, heavy cardboard box.

There’s a shocked pause as Damen stares at him. Then, almost unintentionally, his eyes travel down, to the expanse of Laurent’s bare legs.

He drops the box.

“Oh!” Laurent steps back in surprise – and to prevent it from crushing his foot.

“Shit, shit, ‘m sorry,” Damen says, rasping. He lowers himself on his hunches to pick up the box again, his face red.

“I thought you’d be awake by now; it’s almost noon.” Damen says. He keeps his eyes trained on a point above Laurent’s shoulder.

Laurent squints. “Shit, is it?” He peers back at the box in Damen’s hands. “What is that?”

“It’s just some, uh, chocolate. I had it speed delivered this morning for you.”

Laurent smiles wide, suddenly much more awake. “Is this Isthima’s entire chocolate supply?”

Damen’s own smile is wan. “Also Akielos.’” Damen tries to hand him the box. “Here.”

But Laurent shakes his head, his smile growing. “I can’t carry that. It’d break my arms. Why don’t you come in and drop it off on the table?”

“Come in.” Damen repeats, slowly.

“That’s what I said.”

Damen hesitates for a long, drawn moment. Then, squaring his shoulders as though he’s a soldier going into battle, he walks in past Laurent.

Laurent takes a moment to linger at the doorway, just so he can appreciate the breadth of Damen’s shoulders underneath his shirt and his ass.

Damen places the box on the vanity table near the window. Laurent swears it creaks a little underneath the weight.

Damen claps his hands. “Well. Great. I’ll leave you here to enjoy it.”

“You’re not going to watch me open it?”

Damen eyes close. When he opens them again, the smile on his face is brittle, forced. “Sure.”

When Laurent steps closer, Damen’s eyes helplessly draw to the shifting muscles in his thighs. He knows what Damen sees. Laurent isn’t wearing his usual sleep attire; he’d been so tired last night the only thing he’d pulled on was an old shirt of Auguste’s. It’s big, but not that big; the red lace of his underwear is peeking out, every time he shifts.

Damen’s eyes don’t leave his hips. He looks desperate.

Laurent has never felt this alive. He’d thought about it last night extensively, replaying Damen’s action second by second as he’d fisted his cock and fingered his hole. Everything in Damen’s mannerisms had suggested the obvious – that he was attracted to Laurent. Despite everything, Damen _wants_ Laurent.

And this time, Laurent is going to get him to act on it without freaking out.

He stands next to Damen, whose breathing is shallow and contained. Laurent wonders what he’d do if Laurent told him his bedsheets are stained with cum.

He doesn’t, obviously. Instead, he leans over the box in an attempt to peel off the masking tape at the slit. He drapes his body in a way that makes his shirt ride up. His ass is all but sticking out in Damen’s direction.

Damen sounds like he’s dying.

“You know what – I just realised I…I have to use the bathroom. I should get going.”

Laurent peers at him through his eyelashes. “There’s a bathroom in here.”

Damen’s face is so red it makes his eyes look darker. “I like mine better,” he grits his teeth. He all but runs out of the room, the door slamming shut with a booming noise.

Laurent can’t stop smiling. Chocolate for breakfast sounds pretty good right now.

*

Much later, Laurent sends Damen a text.

_if you were actually serious about the swimming lessons i wouldn’t mind one rn_

Damen calls him. “Did you mean _now_ , now? Because I think Auguste wants to go to dinner.”

Laurent says, “I think I ate twice my weight in chocolate, so I’m probably going to skip dinner. But it’s fine if you go, I think I’ll hang by the pool regardless.”

Damen is pleased, voice considerably warmer. “You liked the chocolate?”

“Loved it,” Laurent admits. “The one with the golden flakes are all gone. I couldn’t help myself.”

Damen laughs. “I’ll get you more,” he promises.

Laurent heads to the rooftop pool after their conversation with a book tucked under his arm. Damen had said he’d try to make it as soon as possible, so he figures he might enjoy some alone time.

The rooftop pool is opulent. It’s palatial in size, with the clearest water Laurent has ever seen, and a view of the sandy beaches and palm trees below. It’s nearing nightfall, so the pool is lit up with swanky, flashing lights under the water that flash a different colour every few seconds. Even the pool chairs are ostentatious, decked in cool, modern white cloth that is wonderful against his skin.

It’s blessedly empty; Laurent supposes that most people are having dinner or going to the actual beach at this time.

He’s only just settled into the chair and pulled out his book, when the sliding doors down the deck open. Damen’s wearing a crew shirt that is indecently tight around his biceps and pecs, and green swimming shorts that ride up with each step he takes.

At least Laurent’s methods of seduction are deliberate; Damen doesn’t even realise how unfairly attractive he is.

“No dinner?” Laurent asks when Damen is close enough.

Damen shrugs. It’s a surprisingly self-conscious gesture. “I wanted to swim more than eat, I guess.”

For a moment, all they do is just stare at each. Damen is thinking about earlier today. Laurent is too.

Then Damen turns his gaze to the pool. He morphs back into his default businessman persona.

“Alright, let’s get started.”

Damen pulls off his shirt. When he catches Laurent still staring, he frowns. “Aren’t you going to come in?”

Laurent manages a weak nod.

Damen is already in the pool, floating on his back, by the time Laurent finally takes off his shirt and goes to the inground pool ladder.

“Fuck, fuck!” Laurent hisses, once he’s in the shallow end of the pool. “It’s fucking freezing!” He wraps his arms around himself, teeth chattering.

Damen laughs, loud and bright. He swims over in measured, leisurely strokes. “You’ll get used it.”

Laurent grimaces. “I regret this completely.”

“It’s easier if you completely submerge your head under – alright, alright,” Damen backs off at the look on Laurent’s face with another grin.

Eventually, Laurent does manage to wade in a little deeper. It’s still cold, but the initial shock of it is wearing off. Damen gives him an encouraging smile, coming to a rest in front of him.

“Ready?”

“I guess,” Laurent mutters.

Damen squeezes his hand once, hard. “Don’t be scared. We’re not going to go all out the first time.”

Laurent is more worried about embarrassing himself. Still, he does trust Damen – that’s a given by now.

The lights in the water are a nice distraction from the water droplets running down Damen’s chest, arms and hair. The lesson continues to drag on, Damen helping him float on his back, then chest, until it’s properly dark, the stars peeking out in the sky.

“It’s so quiet today,” Laurent muses, chin resting on the water. His eyelids are starting to feel heavy.

Damen’s grin is cheeky, playful. It makes his eyes dance. “I might have told the staff to keep the pool closed for today.”

“Did you?” Laurent teases, once Damen’s words register. “Any particular reason?”

Damen shrugs. “I figured you’d be more comfortable if we didn’t have so much noise or distraction up here.”

“Good call,” Laurent says. He casts his gaze up to the sky, watching the clouds and the star. The moon isn’t visible tonight.

Damen is observing him quietly once Laurent’s gaze flickers back to him.

“I was thinking I could take you to a really nice bookstore, after this,” Damen says. “My dad says they have a really good poetry collection.”

“Oh,” Laurent says – and without thinking adds, “ _Insomniac?_ Torveld took me there last night already. But I don’t mind going again.” He says the last part hastily, because Damen’s face instantly sours.

“Did he.” Damen’s voice is clipped.

“Yes. It was nice.”

“Was it.”

Damen’s teeth are clenched as he speaks, his eyes alight with fury. Laurent remembers the way he had acted last night – unrestricted, angry, and it fuels his next words.

“You don’t like me hanging out with Torveld, do you?”

Damen flinches. His stare is now abashed. “I think that’s a plausible conclusion to make.”

“Why?”

“Why what, Laurent?”

Laurent exhales, trying to calm his racing heart. The tension between them is pulsating.

“Tell me why you don’t like me being with Torveld.”

Damen’s laugh is humourless. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I think I do.”

Damen’s eyes find his. His gaze is searching.

When the silence continues for a beat too long, Laurent, spurred by either stupidity or bravery or quite possibly both, says:

“He kissed me last night, you know.”

Damen’s eyes widen, jaw so tight it looks like it hurts. He still doesn’t move though, so Laurent continues:

“He said he wanted me, that I was the most beautiful person he had ever met. He wanted to fuck me, Damen, and I almost let him. He told me he could make it so good for me –”

For all his goading, Laurent still doesn’t expect it when Damen lunges for him.

His last words are cut off on a gasp; then, the searing heat of Damen’s mouth presses against his own. Laurent’s breath hitches as Damen’s arms wrap around his waist tight enough to hurt. He can taste the chlorine on Damen’s lips, and it shouldn’t taste this good but, _fuck,_ it does. Laurent flings his own arms around Damen’s neck, fingers gripping the wetness of his hair.

“God.” Damen breaks the kiss to place his mouth to the thin skin behind Laurent’s ear. “You’re fucking killing me, Laurent.”

He bites down on the skin, and Laurent gasps, cock hardening in his swim shorts, under the water.

“Please,” Laurent whispers, though at this point, he isn’t sure what he’s asking for.

Damen’s mouth travels along Laurent’s neck. At a particular harsh scrape of his stubble, Laurent tightens his grip on Damen’s hair, keening, so Damen keeps doing it again and again, until Laurent is shaking and blurry-eyed.

The danger of coming becomes imminent. Laurent manages a breathless, “W-wait. Stop.”

Damen pulls away instantly. His mouth is red, his eyes dark, but concerned. Even that almost tips Laurent over the edge.

Laurent squeezes his eyes shut for a second, then grabs Damen’s hand with his own. He guides it to his own cock, which is straining and hard.

Damen cups him through his shorts. He looks drunk.

“I – I don’t want to. In the water.” Laurent says. His voice is wrecked.

Damen kisses him again, more slowly. He licks into Laurent’s mouth, deliberate and hot.

“Damen –” Laurent’s whine is choked and delirious.

“Shh,” Damen’s breath is hot against the shell of his ear. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

Laurent whimpers.

Damen’s hands on Laurent’s hips are secure. He pushes Laurent forward a little, until Laurent is almost back to back with the concrete slab.

“Can you jump up a little?”

Laurent nods, a little disorientated. The lip of the pool is almost as flat as the water; it’s not an effort to hop up onto it, even with his heavy, uncooperative limbs.

Damen edges closer. The water barely reaches his navel. His hands rest on Laurent’s thighs, thumbs digging into the inner, meatier part. Laurent sighs, spreading his legs and Damen stands in between them.

It’s like the small intermission never happened; they’re back to groping and kissing each other just as enthusiastically. Laurent has never felt this wanton, with his legs wrapped tight around Damen’s midsection, rutting his cock against his stomach in slow, uncoordinated jerks.

“Please,” Laurent begs again.

Damen kisses him sweetly on the tip of his nose, an action that is completely contrasting to how he savagely pries off Laurent’s shorts until his cock is freed.

Damen’s fingers tighten around his cock, and then fuck, Laurent can’t process anything else. Damen’s rhythm is sure, rough and slow all at once. His thumb circles the head of Laurent’s cock, teasing and sinful. All Laurent can do is pant into his mouth and _take it_. He’s not aware of when he starts shallowly thrusting into Damen’s fist, but it only increases his own pleasure.

Laurent’s fingernails dig into Damen’s bicep. “Damen – I – I –”

“Shh, it’s okay. You deserve to feel good, Laurent. Come on.”

Laurent moans, his body slumping against Damen’s as his orgasm hits. “F-fuck.”

Damen tips his head up and kisses him through it, messy and frantic, until Laurent is mewling desperately all over again. 

“God,” Damen says again. His eyes roam all over Laurent’s face, his torso, and to his crotch. “You’re so beautiful. I can’t believe you’re real.”

Laurent flushes, trying to catch his breath. His eyes fall on Damen’s crotch. The material of his shorts is stretched tight. Laurent reaches forward, but Damen catches his hand and kisses his knuckles sweetly.

“You didn’t –” Laurent starts.

Damen kisses him.

“I’m okay.”

“But – don’t you want…”

“I want a lot of things right now, Laurent. It doesn’t mean I should.”

When Damen pulls back, the panic settles in Laurent’s gut. He squeezes his thighs around Damen. “Don’t run away again.”

Damen’s face shutters. He cups Laurent’s jaw gently, thumb running over his bottom lip. “I’m not,” Damen swears. “But we do need to talk. And it’s starting to get cold out here.”

Laurent nods. His post coital euphoria has evaporated into a brimming anxiety at Damen’s tone. _We need to talk_ is never a good thing, in any context.

So, Laurent leans closer and kisses Damen again. He keeps it chaste.

“Tomorrow. Let’s talk tomorrow. Just – let me have this tonight, please.”

Damen’s eyes feel like they’re boring into his soul. His entire face softens. “Of course,” he says quietly. “Whatever you want.”

*

Apparently, sleep comes to Laurent very easily once he’s kissed the man he’s in love with. He wakes up in an unnaturally good mood. He supposes if this were a Disney movie, he’d be dreamily gazing out the window or breaking out into song.

His reactions aren’t quite so vivacious, but there is a different kind of energy around him, despite the hecticness of the morning.

Auguste’s plans for today are, inexplicably, going to an escape room and eating seafood boil at an all-you-can-eat-buffet.

Damen’s smile is blinding when Laurent joins the group in the lobby. Laurent shyly returns it. Last night, Damen had pressed him up against the door of his room, kissing him until his mouth went numb, and then finally whispering a heated _goodnight_ when they heard the elevator doors open at the end of the hallway.

A part of Laurent can’t believe last night even happened. He feels like if he thinks too hard about it, he’ll realise it had only been some kind of illusion, so he doesn’t.

He knows Damen still wants to talk; it’s evident in the way his face can’t fully relax. It’s on the back of his mind the entire day, Laurent can tell.

Torveld tries to sit next to him during lunch. Damen throws him such a poisonous look, Torveld seems floored. Laurent mouths a _sorry_ to him, later, and Torveld shakes his head with a polite, if strained, smile.

Damen takes his seat next to Laurent in a purposeful manner, like a king who has just sat on his throne after defeating his greatest enemy in war.

It’s late by the time they all make it back. After lunch, they’d all gone back to the beach again, where Auguste had suddenly decided he needed to learn surfing immediately. This had been encouraged by Huet; Laurent has to remember to thank him later, because his camera roll is now filled with about twenty videos of Auguste falling and screaming into the water.

But at the end of the day it falls away to this – the quiet of Laurent’s room as he finally gets a chance to delve under the covers and watch television mindlessly.

Just as Laurent is debating to get up from the mountain of pillows surrounding him to properly get ready for bed, there’s a knock on the door.

His heart jumps to his throat. There’s only one person who would come to his room this late.

Damen hasn’t changed his clothes yet; the sleeves of his shirt are still wet from when Berenger had splashed water onto him. There’s a box of gold flaked chocolate in his hands.

“Hey,” Damen smiles. “Is it okay if I come in?”

“Sure,” Laurent says, shutting the door behind Damen when he walks past.

Damen sets down the chocolate on the vanity. “I ordered more first thing this morning.”

“Thank you,” Laurent says, touched. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know.”

The silence of the room is tenacious. Damen’s eyes won’t meet his; they keep straying from every corner of the room, from the gauzy curtains to the paint on the ceiling. His fingers tap along the edge of the vanity.

Laurent sees the anxiousness across his face and sighs internally. “You regret last night.” Just saying it makes his chest ache.

Damen’s head snaps to him. He stares at Laurent for a long, guarded moment. When he speaks, the words sound almost oppressive. “It’s the fact that I don’t – _can’t_ – regret it…that’s the problem.”

Laurent says, “Would it be so bad if…if we were together?”

Damen swallows. “…It’s more complicated than that.”

“Is it?” Laurent says. His own anxiety has given away to a bitter, coiling kind of resentment. He doesn’t understand why Damen is pushing so hard, even now.

Damen shifts closer.

“We can’t start anything.”

“But why?”

Damen’s laugh is humourless. He fists his hair in frustration. Laurent thinks of his own hands, grabbing the same spot.

“You’re _nineteen_ , Laurent.” He sounds tortured. “You’re practically still a teenager.” Laurent opens his mouth to protest, slightly offended, but Damen steamrolls him. “And it’s not just the age thing – which is still a big deal. It’s everything. You’re Auguste’s baby brother. If we were ever to be…public with this, everyone would eat you alive. No. _No._ I’ve been through this enough times to know by now that every time someone says they’d be okay with it, they’re not, because they have no idea what they’re talking about.”

Laurent heart hammers against this throat. It’s disorientating to realise how much thought Damen has given this. Is this why he’d reacted so viciously the night of the party? Perhaps, by then, he’d realised his attraction to Laurent and had subsequently tried to squash it.

The worst part of it all is the fact that Laurent can understand. He takes another glance at Damen’s twisted expression and nods.

“I – yes. I get it.”

Damen nods slowly. “I – thank you. For understanding.” He clears his throat. “It’s not that I don’t want to… it’s just. Complicated.”

Laurent closes his eyes. “I didn’t think you’d ever admit it.” His voice is shaking. “I always thought it was just me.”

“It hasn’t been just you for a while.” Damen’s admission is quiet and too sincere.

This time, when Laurent laughs, it sounds delirious.

He opens his eyes again. Damen is still watching him. There’s a brief moment where they both skit around each other’s presence, unsure of what to do now, until Damen smiles, a watery twist of his mouth.

“Hey, think of it this way. You dodged a bullet, you know. Ask any of my exes; I can barely keep anyone long enough.”

Laurent doesn’t know so much about the whole bullet dodging thing, but it is true that nearly all of Damen’s relationships, while passionate and genuine, have never been long-winded. He’s pretty sure Damen’s longest relationship had been with Jokaste; they had lasted for a little over a year until she had been photographed with a local politician in the backseat of her car. The photo had been invasive but damning evidence. She hadn’t even seemed sorry after.

All Laurent does now is nod. He hopes it doesn’t look as defeated as he feels.

“I think I’m going back to bed now,” Damen says. “Auguste wants to go hiking early in the morning.”

“He won’t be up before noon,” Laurent says, but he still nods in agreement and follows Damen to the door.

Damen lingers in the open doorway. He turns back to Laurent, shoulders squared. “Was there any other kind of chocolate that you liked?”

“Oh,” Laurent blinks, slightly thrown off. “I – well. The one with the salted caramel was nice. Umm. The white chocolate too.”

“Ah,” says Damen. “Yes. They’re both from Patras. I can get you some more.”

“I think at this point you’re just taking advantage of my sweet tooth.”

Damen smiles. “You can’t prove anything.”

Laurent returns his smile. Damen is still lingering in his doorway. It’s that alone which sparks Laurent’s next thought.

“There was something else. If you can manage it.”

“Try me.” Damen is acquiescent, to no one’s surprise.

Laurent bites his lip. He doesn’t miss the way Damen’s eyes flicker to his mouth.

“I know you said that we couldn’t start anything,” Laurent begins slowly. “But what if – for the rest of this trip, we did? Just until the week is over. And then after, we can still be friends. I just,” Laurent struggles to say the next part. “I want to know what it would be like.”

It’s as though the air stills between them all at once. Damen has always been so expressive; his eyes keep dancing all over Laurent’s face, primal and urgent. Laurent stares back just as openly.

It happens so fast. One moment they’re staring at each other, and then Damen steps forward, his hands at Laurent’s nape, pulling him into a messy kiss.

Laurent’s palms rest flat on Damen’s chest. He moans into his mouth, licking and biting. There’s no slow build in the kiss; it’s too fast paced, intense. One of Damen’s hands reaches behind him to shut the door again with a vicious slam. Laurent flinches at the noise.

“Sorry,” Damen says, and the fact that he says it _into_ Laurent’s mouth makes it ten times hotter.

Laurent whines, curling his fingers into the collar of Damen’s shirt. Damen’s hands slide down his back, over the dip of his waist, which he pinches once, before sliding lower until he’s cupping Laurent’s ass.

Laurent breaks off the kiss with a whimper.

Damen shoves his thigh between Laurent’s legs. Now, both his hands come down to cup Laurent’s ass, pushing him forward until Laurent can start a nice, uneven grind against Damen’s hip.

“G-god,” Laurent breathes.

Damen keeps kissing him. His mouth is hot, wet and insistent as it trails across Laurent’s cheek, the column of his neck, then back to his mouth. Laurent can’t stop his gasps; the pressure in his groin feels like too much and not enough all at once.

“Please,” he pants. “Damen –”

Damen grips his ass even harder, to the point where he lifts Laurent off the ground slightly. Laurent’s grinding is erratic, at best. There’s no finesse to the way he’s basically rutting against Damen, who doesn’t seem to mind, if the half-choked noises spilling from his lips are any indication.

“It’s so good,” Laurent says, his head tipped back.

Damen growls. His mouth latches to the patch of skin under Laurent’s chin, over his Adam’s apple. “I want you to feel good, always.” Damen’s voice is rugged. 

Laurent wraps his arms around Damen’s neck tightly, eyes screwed shut as he comes in his pants.

He keeps whimpering as he does so; high pitched noises of pleasure, his voice hitching with every breath. Damen presses a kiss to his temple, burying his nose in Laurent’s hair.

“Shh…that was amazing Laurent. You did so good.”

Laurent mewls weakly, head still spinning from his orgasm.

As he comes back, blinking against the harsh lighting in the room, Damen shifts, and Laurent realises he’s hard and straining against his jeans.

Laurent cups him gently, peering at Damen through his eyelashes. “Let me, please. You didn’t get to last time, either.”

Damen’s eyes close briefly, before he opens them with a resigned expression. “It doesn’t matter.”

“What d’you mean?” Laurent’s slurring a little. How embarrassing. “You don’t want to come?”

“Laurent,” Damen says. It’s supposed to be a warning, Laurent thinks, but Damen just sounds desperate. He _looks_ desperate.

“Let me,” Laurent repeats. “I want to make you feel good, too, Damen.”

Damen kisses him hard in response. His teeth sink into Laurent’s bottom lip. Laurent takes that as a yes.

When the kiss breaks, Laurent drops to his knees.

“Holy fuck,” Damen gasps, and it sounds awed.

Laurent feels like he’s having an out of body experience. He thinks because he’s imagined this exact scenario so many times over the years, it now feels surreal. His hands shake a little as he unbuckles Damen’s belt and pulls his pants down. Damen is wearing boxers embroidered with gold thread, and that almost makes Laurent snort, despite the current situation.

Damen’s cock is magnificent, a hot, heady weight in his palm.

“Fuck,” Damen says again, and Laurent lets out a small huff of laughter.

“I haven’t done anything yet.”

Damen’s thighs are tight, trembling. “You don’t – know how you…look. Right now.”

Laurent is oddly pleased by Damen’s deteriorating ability to speak. To reward him, Laurent finally leans forward and kisses the tip.

Damen jolts into shock; his fists clench and his thighs, impossibly, tighten further. Emboldened, Laurent sticks out his tongue to drag it along the underside of Damen’s cock in a long, slow sweep. The taste of Damen makes Laurent moan.

“You can touch me,” Laurent says quietly, before going in for the kill.

His experience in this field is limited; he’s not completely virginal, but Damen has had people older, richer, more practiced in bed with him. All Laurent wants to do is be somewhat comparable to them.

Laurent keeps his hands above Damen’s knees to steady himself as he suckles the head of Damen’s cock.

“Fucking – _fuck_.” Damen’s moan is a bitten off sound. His hand rests gently on top of Laurent’s head, not quite gripping or pushing him away.

Damen is very vocal. It does wonders for Laurent’s confidence. He parts his mouth more, jaw loose as he begins the earnest slide over Damen’s cock, swallowing him down. Damen’s hips jerk; a stilted motion that he carefully keeps in check. Laurent is appreciative; Damen is big, and he doesn’t want his gagging to impede on them tonight.

Laurent keeps his rhythm lax; his mouth is wet, hot over Damen’s cock as he alternates between harsh sucks to the very head, to slower, purposeful ones. His cheeks hollow and his eyes flutter close as he loses himself to the senses around him: Damen’s smell, his touch, the texture of his wiry hair under Laurent’s fingertips.

Damen’s hand tenses in his hair. “Laurent – wait. I’m going to –”

Laurent feels as though his heart is going to cave in his chest. He manages to pull off Damen’s dick for a moment to whisper, “It’s okay, I want you to.”, before he hollows his cheeks again and sucks hard.

  
“Fuck! Fuck! _Shit._ ” Damen groans as Laurent swallows around his convulsing cock.

Laurent has never particularly cared for the taste of cum but knowing that Damen is spilling into his mouth has him gratefully swallowing every drop.

He keeps sucking, until Damen gently pushes him away, sensitive and spent.

Laurent takes a moment to regulate his breathing, still on the floor. Damen pulls him up a while later, his touch soothing and mild.

Laurent isn’t expecting the kiss this time; he’s never been with someone who’s ever wanted to, after a blowjob – but Damen does so eagerly, open mouthed and wet.

“I can’t believe you,” Damen says, eyes shut, forehead resting against Laurent’s. “I – _god,_ Laurent.”

Laurent smiles. He places another chaste kiss to the corner of Damen’s mouth. “Stay with me tonight.”

Damen’s eyes blow open. Everything about him is lustful. He swallows. “Yes.”

*

After Laurent gets changed into a fresh pair of underwear and a new set of pyjamas – those ridiculous silk ones that Damen insisted was good for sensitive skin, he begins to feel a different kind of ecstasy, one he’s never experienced. He can’t stop smiling. His cheeks, rich with colour, hurt from it.

Damen is sprawled on the bed when Laurent steps out of the bathroom. All he’s wearing is his underwear. It thrills Laurent to see him like this, in his bed; there’s something illicit yet sweet about it.

Damen props himself onto his elbows and gives him lazy smile that’s full of sex. His eyes track Laurent as he makes his way to the bed.

It’s inevitable that they begin kissing again. It seems now that Damen has explicit permission from Laurent, he can’t bring it within himself to stop. His hands card through Laurent’s hair, pushing it away from his face.

Damen rolls on top of Laurent, pinning him to the mattress. It’s intoxicating to be here, in this position, under the weight of Damen.

Laurent’s whine is a ridiculous sound. “I’ve thought about this too many times.” Laurent means this specific position, because it’s one that’s always made him feel both powerful and powerless.

Damen says into his ear, “Me too.”

“How long?”

“Too long,” Damen says. “Longer than I should have.” He kisses Laurent’s neck. “Longer than I wanted to admit.”

Laurent’s smile is swallowed by Damen’s mouth. The kiss is as consuming as all the other times. It makes Laurent’s toes curl, his chest heave and before he’s completely aware of it, he’s grinding against the clean cut of Damen’s abs. Laurent can’t believe he’s hard again, so soon; Damen is unfairly good at kissing and touching him in just the right places.

Damen helps him take off his shirt. When their bare chests touch, the kissing becomes more urgent. Laurent digs his nails into the shaven, underside of Damen’s haircut, then into the broadness of his shoulders.

Damen lowers his head and kisses the sensitive spot under Laurent’s jaw. He doesn’t relent until Laurent is shaking in his arms. Then, he lowers his head even more, mouth skimming over Laurent’s collarbone, his sternum, until his tongue grazes along Laurent’s nipples.

Laurent is panting, hyperaware of the heat of his skin – or maybe that’s just Damen’s mouth and tongue.

His grinding becomes sloppier, and he’s not sure he’s ever been this openly wanton before.

“Damen,” Laurent breathes.

Damen keeps moving lower; his mouth skims over Laurent’s stomach, biting lightly. Laurent whimpers.

Damen’s hands come to rest on Laurent’s hips. His thumb passes over the waistband of Laurent’s pants. When he looks up, there’s a question in his eyes. Laurent nods.

But Damen doesn’t take off Laurent’s pants; instead, his thumb presses more insistently into the waistband. His breathing deepens.

Kissing the space next to where his thumb has taken refuge, Damen asks, voice husky, “Are you…Do you have them on?”

For a moment, Laurent doesn’t have any idea what Damen is referring to. Once he realises, he flushes, but smiles.

“Only one way to find out.”

Damen exhales, sharp and short, and pulls down Laurent’s pants, just enough so that the sky-blue lace is visible along his pelvis.

“Fuck,” Damen says, stunned.

Laurent can feel the colour vining across his face.

Damen’s movements are now much hurried; he takes off Laurent’s pants with little care, leaving Laurent in his underwear, the same way as Damen.

Damen’s hands run up his thighs, thumbs digging into the meat of them. Laurent gasps.

“When you first told me you wore these…I kept imagining them on you. And then you sent me that picture and I…” Damen swallows, eyes carnal. “But it’s nothing compared to seeing it in real life.”

Laurent says, painfully honest, “I wanted your attention.”

“You had it.” Damen says. “You always had it.”

Damen’s stubble is rough against Laurent’s inner thighs; Laurent can imagine his skin turning pink, then darkening to a red, as Damen keeps kissing him there.

“You have a beauty mark here,” Damen says, biting down. “Did you know that?”

“Hmm…” Laurent can’t articulate a response as Damen continues his ministrations.

The heat in the room is now stifling. Sweat gathers across Laurent’s hairline, behind his neck and even his palms, which are clenched into the bedsheets.

When Damen finally mouths Laurent’s cock over the lace, Laurent stops him with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“If you do that right now, I’m going to come.”

Damen arches an eyebrow, amused. “Is that not the goal for tonight?”

Laurent tries to keep his face straight as he says, “I want you to fuck me.”

Damen pauses. The shock is evident on his face – as is his arousal.

“Yeah we can do that,” he says after a while. “If – you want it.”

Laurent spreads his legs wider in response.

Unfortunately, Damen doesn’t go right for it – as Laurent expects him to. He spends the next few minutes kissing Laurent until Laurent is pliant, slack beneath him. In fact, Laurent feels like he’s sinking into the mattress. 

Laurent is so relaxed, he can’t even protest too much when Damen rolls off him. Fortunately, he doesn’t go very far. Laurent watches through hooded eyes as Damen rummages through his own jeans’ pockets. He pulls out a small bottle of lube and condoms. Laurent manages a small laugh.

“Did you have those on you when you came to my room?” he asks. “You’re more presumptuous than I thought.”

Damen’s knees slide along the edge of Laurent’s hips. His smile is all teeth. “Spontaneous, remember?” he laughs, but then adds, “Actually, hopeful. I grabbed them while you were in the bathroom. I – I thought that we could…”

“Yes.” Laurent says. He feels all too eager suddenly.

Damen takes off Laurent’s underwear with great reluctance. He almost looks mournful as he tosses them aside. A part of Laurent feels like he should be a bit embarrassed, spread out and naked like this, but the look on Damen’s face, reverent, drowns out that worry.

“God, look at you,” Damen murmurs, thumb tracing Laurent’s lower lip. “You’re so gorgeous.”

Laurent’s chest flushes with colour at the compliment.

Damen warms up the lube; by the time his finger traces Laurent’s rim, Laurent barely feels the resistance.

Still, he says, “Go slow during this part.”

Damen looks at him steadily. “Is this your first time?”

Laurent almost snorts. “No. Just…the last time I did this it wasn’t very enjoyable.”

“Did he hurt you?” Damen’s anger is a sudden energy in the room.

“No,” Laurent says. “Well, yes. But not intentionally!” Damen is still glaring, the task he is supposed to be focusing on momentarily forgotten so Laurent rolls his hips. “You can help me forget about him right now.”

Damen blinks. Then, his lips pull into a lazy, heated smirk. “I can do that.”

Damen fucks Laurent open with his fingers. At first, he is gentle and sweet. When Laurent’s mouth begins producing more and more unfiltered noises of pleasure, Damen becomes more enthusiastic in his preparation. Laurent whines into his mouth as Damen’s fingers twist into him, working him open until Laurent is loose, sloppy and wet. The sounds in the room are downright filthy.

At this point, Laurent is delirious from all the sensations crawling in his body. His cock is red, painful and leaking against his stomach. “Damen, you have to fuck me now.”

Damen kisses his kneecap, then hip. His fingers don’t leave Laurent, not until Laurent, tearful and so, so turned on, begs, “ _Please._ ”

Damen pulls out with a final, lingering kiss to Laurent’s thigh. Laurent has to close his eyes in anticipation as he hears Damen pulling off his underwear, and then the subsequent rustling of the condom being torn.

“Okay?” Damen asks, his hand on Laurent’s stomach, soothing and soft.

Laurent opens his eyes. Damen’s hand is gripping the base of his cock, which is still large and wonderful. Seeing Damen naked is like a direct punch to his solar plexus. Laurent can’t believe someone so beautiful can exist – and then be in his bed as well.

He nods, a little breathless.

Damen, however, seems intent on still teasing him; the head of his cock glides along the crease of Laurent’s ass in a slow, dirty promise. Laurent whines, pitiful, but Damen is merciless; his eyes are dark as they search Laurent’s face, like he can’t get enough of his reactions.

Laurent is the first to break. Of course he is. “ _Please,_ Damen.”

Damen smiles; it’s sweet, a stark contrast to the way he’s handling his own cock.

Laurent’s eyes roll back in his head when Damen finally enters him. His cock is a warm, slow slide into his body. Laurent has never felt this full, like he’s bursting at the seams. His toes curl and drag along the bedsheets. His body feels like it’s on fire.

Damen splits Laurent in two. When his balls press against Laurent’s ass, Laurent, overwhelmed and dazed, comes.

He comes and comes and _comes_ – and it seems it’s all his body is capable of doing for a long time. There’s loud, hitching breaths stuttering around the space between them, and Laurent realises with some degree of horror, that the noise is coming from him.

“ _God._ ”

He’s not even aware he’s crying, not until Damen shushes him soothingly, kissing his forehead, his eyebrows, the corner of his eyes, which are damp, and his nose.

“Okay?” Damen says again. “Do you want me to pull out?”

“No!” Laurent says, panicked. He wraps his arms around Damen’s neck and his legs tight around Damen’s waist. It makes Damen slide in deeper, and he moans.

Once Laurent has calmed down enough, he whispers into Damen’s ear. “Fuck me good, Damen. I want to feel you.”

Damen curses above him. His groan is guttural. The pace he sets is leisurely at first; it’s torturous to feel the drag of his cock like this. Trembling for air, Laurent clings onto Damen, solely focused on how stretched and full he is.

Laurent keeps moaning like a whore. He chants over and over, “Yes, yes, _yes_.” It should feel performative, to be this vocal, but it isn’t. Damen is genuinely blowing his mind.

Damen’s voice is nothing more than a coarse pant as his strokes get rougher. He’s switched to speaking in Akielon. “Fuck, you feel so good, you’re so good for me, yes, like that.”

Laurent is hard again.

He lets his hands skate down Damen’s back, the muscle underneath shifting and straining with every stroke. He reaches up to taste Damen’s skin. Between short breaths, Laurent sucks and bites along his neck, licking along the sweat that gathers there, and then biting viciously into Damen’s shoulder as he pounds and pounds into Laurent.

“Fuck, don’t stop,” Laurent moans. “Don’t stop, please.”

Damen hands are pressed into the pillow on either side of Laurent’s head. He moves one of them down, using his thumb to flick at Laurent’s nipple and then lower, so he’s gripping Laurent’s ass and pulling them closer.

Like this, Damen’s cock slides even deeper, and nudges his prostate. Laurent’s breath hitches, and Damen’s thrusts gets even rougher. He bites down on Laurent’s earlobe. “You’re so incredible. You’re beautiful.”

Laurent kisses him fervently, tugging on Damen’s hair. Damen’s mouth is just as reckless and demanding as his thrusts; his kisses leave Laurent scrabbling at his back uselessly. His cock, pressed to Damen’s stomach, is getting a delicious friction. Laurent feels like he’s somehow winning and losing a great race.

He lets out a small sob. “Damen, _Damen_.” It’s all he can say as he comes again. He sags into the mattress as he does so, body wrung dry and exhausted.

“Fuck,” Damen’s eyes are wide as he watches him. There’s nothing but amazement scrawled over his face.

Damen’s thrusts are less practiced now; there’s a sloppy desperation to them. His eyes refuse to leave Laurent’s face as he chases his own release.

Laurent mouths along his stubble, the curves of his cheek. “You’re so deep inside me. When you come, do you think I’ll be able to taste you?”

“Holy shit.” Damen’s moan is right up in Laurent’s ear as he finally comes. The warmth of it has Laurent clenching down a little; Damen gasps, still thrusting weakly as he shakes off his orgasm.

It’s maddening how empty Laurent feels when Damen gingerly pulls out. He honestly can’t think anymore; he wouldn’t be surprised if Damen somehow managed to obliterate all his braincells during sex. He keeps his eyes on the ceiling, not really paying attention to anything as he hears Damen throwing away the condom and shuffling across the sheets.

Damen pulls him into an easy embrace. Laurent falls into his chest too willingly.

He expects there to be some awkward pillow talk. Perhaps Damen is regretting everything now, as the silence becomes more apparent. Or maybe Laurent isn’t a good partner to have sex with.

But Damen, as always, defies expectations. When Laurent finally gathers enough courage to look him in the eyes, there’s nothing but tenderness there.

Laurent almost says, _Don’t look at me like that,_ but by now it’s clear he’s not good at self-preservation.

He leans forward and kisses Damen. Post sex, it’s lethargic and easy. There’s no rush or endgame as Damen’s hands run down his back, over his hips. Laurent’s palms lay on Damen’s chest, feeling the rapid beating of his heart.

“I don’t want this night to end,” Laurent says quietly, afterwards. He doesn’t want this trip to end, either.

Damen pushes Laurent’s hair behind his ear. His smile is a wistful, private thing. “That’s all I ever think every time we’re together.”

*

Auguste is surprisingly sober at breakfast the next morning. It’s the first day out of the entire trip so far where everyone has managed to wake up at a reasonable time. As a result, not only are they in time for the breakfast buffet, but they’re also able to eat together.

Auguste and Damen are by far the chattiest. All conversation is led by them, to the point where Huet stops trying to convince them to shut up for five minutes so he can eat his bacon in peace.

Damen’s good mood is apparent and contagious. Even Torveld, who has been slightly cold towards him, seems to be caught in the infectious jubilancy surrounding them this morning. 

Every time Laurent looks up from his plate, Damen’s eyes are already on him, his smile a permanent fixture. It’s a rush to know that he can make Damen feel and act this way.

Damen is seated next to him, too close; their shoulders brush every time they move. No one seems to notice their proximity.

Catching Damen’s eyes now, Laurent shifts in his seat, purposeful. Damen doesn’t miss it; his mouth curls more prominently until it becomes a smirk.

They had sex again last night, after the first time – and then again early this morning. Sleepy and sluggish, it had been frighteningly intimate; their hands slowly dragging across each other’s bodies, their mouths melded together, their orgasms quiet but intense.

Laurent’s thighs are bruised by Damen’s teeth, his lips, his stubble. He had spent too much time this morning admiring them in the mirror.

Perhaps realising that they’ve spent too much time staring at one another, Damen turns away and asks Auguste what restaurant he wants to go to tonight.

Halfway through breakfast, Laurent’s hand accidentally brushes with Damen’s. He means to pull away, but Damen grabs his hand, laces it with his own and places it on his thigh.

Laurent keeps his smile hidden in the crook of his neck.

*

They have about half an hour before they need to go back into the lobby; Auguste wants to go hiking today.

Laurent follows Damen into his room, pushes him against the wall and goes down on his knees.

They make it with five minutes to spare.

*

“Yes, y-yes,” Laurent sobs, riding Damen in the backseat of his Citroen. It’s not a custom Rolls Royce, but it’s the closest thing they have in Isthima.

The windows are fogged up. The car is parked in a private garage; still, the thrill of being caught lingers in the air.

Laurent’s pace has Damen’s fingers creating permanent dents on his hips, his thighs. Laurent comes with the knowledge that Damen’s mark has been imbedded into his skin.

*

“Fuck – that’s – _fuck._ ” Laurent’s forehead falls onto the hard wood of the vanity table. The sweat on his temple softens the impact; his head streaks wetly across the tabletop.

Damen’s palm is loud as it strikes the softest part of Laurent’s ass. Laurent gasps, pupils blown. His knuckles turn white as he grasps the edge of the table.

Damen’s face pulls away from Laurent’s crease. His chin is wet. “I told you to keep watching yourself, or I’ll stop.”

Laurent whimpers, toes scraping across the leather in his custom loafers.

With great effort, he lifts his head. In the mirror above the vanity, his reflection stares back at him. He looks a mess. His cheeks are stained with tear tracks, his face a blotchy red, and his hair is unkempt and matted.

Damen’s tongue curls back into his rim, licking him open. His hands spread Laurent wide, as he thrusts his tongue inside Laurent’s hole. Damen alternates between broad, flat strokes and tight, short ones.

Laurent watches himself, mouth open, cries lost in his throat.

Damen is relentless. Laurent genuinely feels like he’s going to pass out.

“Damen – _please._ Please let me come.”

Damen stops. He bites Laurent’s right ass cheek. He deliberates. “No,” he says.

And then he dives right back in.

*

With his palms flat on the wall, jeans pooled around his ankles and Damen thrusting in him harsh and fast from behind, Laurent feels like a proper slut.

The fact that they’re doing this in a public elevator is also attributing to Laurent’s current state of mind. It’s whorish, dirty, primal.

Damen had pressed the emergency stop button and said, “We have twenty minutes before it restarts. And I know how to wipe the security footage”, before he was on Laurent, kissing him savagely.

Damen’s pants are rough. “I should do this in front of Torveld. Wonder what’d he think?”

Laurent grasps his own cock, forehead hitting the wall. _Fuck._ The thought turns him on immensely. He’d sat next to Torveld tonight, had listened to his stories with genuine interest, as Damen sat in his own seat across the table and fumed. Laurent had known he’d been jealous – but had never expected Damen’s possessiveness to be so…vulgar.

Choking on a moan, Laurent says, “It’s not Veretians who have a problem with exhibitionism.”

Damen’s chest rumbles; the noise of his growl trapped. “I don’t want him looking at you.”

Laurent stops his laugh in time. Damen’s thrusts are getting rougher; Laurent’s face smashes into the cool glass wall of the elevator, but Damen doesn’t stop. Laurent doesn’t want him to. He’s never had sex like this – never knew sex could _be_ like this. As rough as Damen is, Laurent feels _safe._

He manages to say, “It doesn’t matter if he looks at me. I only ever look at back at you.”

  
Damen comes.

*

Laurent’s fourth orgasm of the night is a dry one; he comes apart, shaking in Damen’s arms. Damen murmurs soothing, nonsensical things in his ear, his body ripe with sweat as he calms Laurent down.

Laurent doesn’t think he’s ever been so thoroughly taken apart; his skin is still hot, and his heart is racing too fast. Damen kisses him through the aftershocks, touch gentle and warm.

Their last night in Isthima had been a quiet one. Everyone had gathered in Auguste’s room to drink cheap beer and play board games with obscure rules. Afterwards, Laurent and Damen had ended up in Damen’s room. Damen had wanted to know how many times Laurent could come in a row; Laurent had been more than up for the challenge.

Now, Damen says, “I think four is the limit.”

“Maybe,” Laurent says. His throat is hoarse. “I think we could try again, though.”

Damen’s smile is unbearably fond. “Let’s wait for a while.”

Through the sheer curtains, the sun is rising, washing the room in muted light. Damen’s curls are highlighted in the sunlight. Laurent tries to run his hands through it, but his body is in a weird, jellylike state.

It’s going to be so strange going back to Marlas, Laurent thinks. From tomorrow, he’s not going to have this.

Damen’s lips skim over the column on Laurent’s neck. “Come back to me.”

Laurent inhales shakily. This time, he manages to card a hand through Damen’s messy curls. “I’m here,” he says.

Damen grins and kisses him. Without breaking the kiss, he rolls them over, until Laurent is the one on top, his hair hanging between them like a curtain.

Damen’s hands run down Laurent’s back, before he cups his ass. His grin now is mischievous. “Do you want to try for number five?”

Their flight back to Marlas is in four hours. Laurent hasn’t even thought about preparing for his next semester of university. He wishes he could say, _why can’t we just have this_?, because he was stupid to think that five days would be enough to pry Damen out of the space in his heart.

In Marlas, things are going to be different, and he doesn’t know what to do about it.

Laurent doesn’t vocalise any of that, though. Instead, he kisses Damen and tries not to think until he’s back on the plane.

*

Two weeks into the start of the semester, Damen visits Laurent on campus to tell him he’s going to go back to Ios for the rest of the year.

“Oh,” Laurent says, surprised. At first, he’s certain he’s misheard; the coffee shop is chaotic and loud at this time of day. But he catches the serious lines across Damen’s face and his heart drops a little. “Is everything okay?”

Damen has been busier than usual since Isthima. A part of Laurent worried Damen was using work as an excuse to avoid him after everything – but Damen still makes sure to call him every day and send him gifts, so Laurent’s concerns were short lived.

Damen is very stressed; it’s clear from the way he slouches in his seat and blinks blearily at Laurent through their impromptu meeting.

“Everything is fine,” he assures, taking a more than generous sip of his extra strong cappuccino. “It’s just that my parents are thinking of retiring soon, so there’s a lot of stuff I gotta sort out back home.”

“Oh,” Laurent says again. He wishes he could say something a bit more meaningful. All he comes up with is a, “Uh, good luck?”

Damen snorts. His expression is amused, fond. “I’ll need it, definitely.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Soon,” Damen says. “Probably by the end of the week.”

Before Laurent can add another useless comment – probably another “Oh” – Damen hedges on, “But I was thinking I could come visit you every…”

“Week.”

“Month.”

They both speak at the same time. Laurent winces, horrified at sounding too eager, but Damen quickly says, “No, yeah, every week sounds good.” He nods to himself. “It’ll give me something to look forward to on the weekend.”

“Me too,” Laurent says softly.

Damen leans over the tabletop to grip Laurent’s hands. “Don’t be a stranger, alright?”

 _I tried that once,_ Laurent wants to say. He doesn’t; he nods and keeps drinking his coffee and feels selfish for wanting Damen to stay.

*

Despite Damen’s promise and some well-intentioned timetabling, it becomes almost impossible for him to fly down to Marlas every week. In fact, even a visit once a month is a stretch – Damen is apparently swamped with meetings, frustrating clients, his father’s disapproval, and his mother’s hovering.

Laurent assures him it’s okay if they don’t see each other for a few weeks; they can still call, after all. But even those gradually peter out in frequency.

Damen’s absence in his life is like a mild sprain; at times, it’s fine to go on and complete day to day activities, until something goes wrong and the pain becomes too consuming to ignore.

Weeks go by, then months, and Laurent is taken aback to realise that he’s seen Makedon more times than he has seen Damen over the course of the semester.

He doesn’t exactly know what to do with that information, except excessively ruminate over it whenever he gets distracted in lectures.

Laurent asks Damen later that day if he can maybe go to Ios instead.

“I really wouldn’t mind.”

Damen’s answer is distracted; over the phone, Laurent can hear the shuffling of papers and the low, steady hum of conversation. “I know you wouldn’t,” he says. “But I honestly don’t think I could get out of work long enough to even say hi.”

After that, Laurent doesn’t bother to set up any more plans of seeing Damen in the flesh.

His life goes back to its comforting routine. It’s only broken through occasional interruptions, like going back to Arles for the weekend or attending Jord’s house party.

Laurent even agrees to be set up on a date with one of Aimeric’s cousins. It goes well; Alexandre is very nice and has interesting commentary on anything from equestrianism to stamp collecting.

The bar he picks is also very classy, with sloping ceilings and dim lights. Laurent drinks far too much during their date; at the end, it’s obvious Alexandre wants to kiss him and possibly have sex, but Laurent stumbles over the sidewalk and all Alexandre does is courteously call an Uber.

It’s more than a surprise to see Damen outside his door, leaning against it. Laurent abruptly stops walking when he spots him.

Damen straightens a little, once he realises Laurent is openly staring at him. “Hey.” His smile is tentative.

“Hi.”

Laurent is hugging him before he’s aware of it. Damen’s cologne is a comforting, familiar scent and the hug goes on and on. When they break apart, Laurent kisses him once, on the mouth, only he misses and manages to get Damen’s chin.

Still, Damen looks shocked by it; his eyes widen and he holds Laurent at a more appropriate distance.

“Alright?” he says.

Laurent nods, unsteady. “Yes – I. What are you doing here? Were you waiting long?”

“I came to see you,” says Damen, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “And no, I wasn’t. Barely ten minutes.” His gaze lingers on Laurent’s outfit. “You look nice.” It’s said casually, bur Damen’s hand tighten on his shoulders.

Laurent opens the door, ushering Damen inside. “I – thank you. I was on a date with Aimeric’s cousin.”

“A date.”

“Yes.”

The lights are blinding in his apartment; in his current state, it makes Laurent feel dizzy.

Damen worryingly hovers. “You’re drunk.”

Laurent laughs. “Yeah, I guess. I was so nervous tonight I just kept – I should have stopped.”

His answer doesn’t please Damen, Laurent can tell.

Damen steers him to the couch and brings him a bottle of water.

Laurent makes sure to drink enough to appease Damen’s worries before he asks, “Won’t the office mind that you’ve come to Marlas?”

“The office, no,” Damen says, “My father on the other hand…” He casts his face up to the ceiling, his expression briefly twisting in a grimace.

“I’m sorry. You really shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.”

“It isn’t trouble for me,” Damen assures. “And this was long overdue. I almost forgot what you looked like.”

Laurent smiles. “That would have been a true tragedy.”

Damen only says, “You’ve no idea.”

It’s not even that late, but Damen insists on getting Laurent to bed. He even goes as far as tucking Laurent into bed, which is sweet, but completely unnecessary. Laurent isn’t that drunk.

“Can you please stay tonight?” Laurent says.

Damen’s eyebrows furrow. “Here?” His eyes land on the empty space next to Laurent.

“The apartment,” Laurent quickly corrects. “I know the sofa bed might be uncomfortable but I…I just want you here.”

Damen softens, his entire body lax. He smooths Laurent’s hair off his forehead. “Whatever you want, Laurent.”

Laurent sighs in relief. Damen reaches over him to turn of the lamp on the nightstand. In the darkness of the room, Laurent finds himself saying, “It wasn’t serious.”

Damen pauses in his movements. “What wasn’t?”

“My date. With Alexandre. I only said yes because I was trying to forget you.”

Damen stills. Even in the dark, it’s evident how statuesque he becomes.

Damen’s voice is strangled as he says, “Goodnight, Laurent.”

As Laurent closes his eyes, already drifting off, he swears he feels Damen’s lips on his temple.

*

Laurent shuffles into the kitchen the next morning, bleary eyed and slow to see Damen there, fiddling with the stove. It’s cold this morning; there’s a layer of condensation on the windows from the foggy weather and the tiles are icicles beneath his feet.

Damen is in the same shirt and slacks as yesterday, although there is now a notable crease along his shoulders. His hair is flat at the back from where he’d slept on it.

Laurent is content to just watch him for a few moments; the domesticity of this picture is incredibly comforting, but Damen must sense his presence because he looks up almost immediately.

His grin is dazzling. “Morning.”

“Morning.” Laurent approaches him at the stove. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing fancy,” Damen says. “I’m just making us eggs and toast.”

“I should be doing this. You’re my guest.”

Damen waves him off. “I got this. Really.”

Laurent leaves him to it. He decides to make them both some coffee; he only has a cheap, three-dollar instant blend. It’s one of his favourites. Damen wrinkles his nose at it and Laurent laughs. “You’ll like it.”

Although Laurent does have a dining table, they seat themselves at the kitchen counter. Damen winces at the taste of the coffee, but finishes the entire thing, much to Laurent’s amusement.

Their conversation is mild; Laurent asks Damen if he slept well. Damen says yes, and then asks Laurent if he did. Laurent says yes. Then they begin talking about the weather, of all things, and Laurent’s latest assessment. The _carefulness_ of it all makes Laurent frown.

As they stand side by side at the sink, doing the dishes, Laurent tells him about a new exhibition at the museum that he still hasn’t managed to catch.

Damen nods, sleeves rolled up. “We could go right now, or after lunch. Whatever you want.”

Laurent pauses, hand resting on the lip of the counter. “You say that a lot,” he says slowly. “Do you really mean it?”

Damen doesn’t even pause to think about his answer. “Of course,” he says.

“What if what I wanted was something completely outrageous? Like, what if I asked you to buy me a country?”

Damen’s laugh is fond. “I’m sure I could manage it.”

“Well, what if I wanted you to murder your entire family?”

“Done.”

“Damen.”

Damen squeezes his elbow. “Laurent. Listen to me. I’m able to promise you these things because I know you. And I know you would never ask me something I wouldn’t _want_ to give you.”

Laurent gapes at him. His eyes move over the expanse of Damen’s face, marvelling at the openness of it. The wintery light is subdued in the apartment, but Damen still radiates an unmatched warmth.

All or nothing, Laurent thinks. And he’s tried nothing.

Far more confidently than he feels, Laurent says, “You know I’m in love with you, right?” He peers up at Damen. “You know that.”

Damen’s jaw slackens; with great effort he closes it, but his eyes are wide, stunned.

Laurent continues speaking, “I know what you said before – all the reasons why we can’t do this. But I’ve thought about it for so long and I – I want this, with you.”

Damen closes his eyes, briefly pained. “Laurent. You deserve someone who –”

“No,” Laurent cuts him off. He’s never felt so calm, yet overenergized. “How about I deserve what I _want_? I want _you_ , Damen. I always have. Whatever I want, that’s what you promised me.”

Damen’s eyes are dark when he opens them again. There’s a long, tense silence. When he speaks, his words sound choked, “I still think you deserve better.”

“I deserve better than a multimillionaire who treats me like I’m the most important part of his life?”

Damen visibly reigns himself at that comment. “…Yes. Even…even one that loves you as much as this one does.”

Laurent flushes bright and closes his eyes, the weight of the confession, staggering.

“You love me?”

Damen’s hands cup his face, thumb a gentle pressure on the underside of his jaw. “You know that.”

Laurent laughs wetly. When he opens his eyes, Damen’s expression is tender, adoring. In love. It’s the way Damen has been looking at him all this time.

Laurent falls into his arms. The kiss is slow, steady. Laurent’s hands rest on Damen’s chest, just feeling the muscle. Damen tilts his head, his fingertips pressing into Laurent’s jaw and Laurent moans, flinging his arms around Damen’s neck.

Damen’s hands are now vicelike against his hips, the dip of his waist as the kiss becomes increasingly fevered. Laurent opens his mouth eagerly under Damen’s, and Damen keeps kissing him enthusiastically, almost bending Laurent’s backwards to lick into his mouth.

Damen breaks the kiss to pick Laurent up – _holy fuck, yes_ – and place him on the counter. The granite is a shock of cold; Damen kisses his neck in commiseration.

“I’m going to call up the office,” Damen says, into the expanse of his neck. Laurent feels his breath dance across his skin. “And tell them my annual leave starts now.” He looks at Laurent, expression almost feral. “We are not leaving this apartment for the next six weeks.”

Laurent’s laugh transforms into a gasp halfway through. “I – I have uni,” he says, as Damen bites down on his collarbone.

“I’ll sort it out.”

Damen touches him with an excruciating gentleness, even when he pries off Laurent’s shirt and lets his thumbs stroke over his nipples, the lace peeking out of his pants.

“God, I love you. So much.” Damen says, his voice muffled by Laurent’s skin.

Laurent gasps. “Say it again,” he demands breathlessly.

Damen’s smile takes up his whole face. Laurent feels his heart swell in his chest, rearranging his insides.

Damen’s kiss this time is reverent, consuming.

“Whatever you want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, thank you so so so much for your kindness in the previous chapter. at one point, i was so unmotivated, i almost deleted this entire fic just so i could forget about it. but i went over and reread the comments, and i managed to finish. if you made it to the end of this, have a star because this chapter was 35 thousand words of madness
> 
> im excited to keep making content for this fandom (and actually back it up this time lol)
> 
> thank you for reading!!!!!
> 
> also: im on tumblr [@goldencuffs](https://goldencuffs.tumblr.com/). please follow me there and come chat with me!!!
> 
> edit: @sushishorts on tumblr has created some wonderful art pieces for this fic [here](https://sushishorts.tumblr.com/post/187957669360/i-drew-the-selfie-laurent-sent-damen-in-receipts) and [here](https://sushishorts.tumblr.com/post/187943846040/for-goldencuffs-for-their-wonderful-fic) please go check them out and show your support!!!!


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